


Winning Isn't the Only Thing

by annie_reckson



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Blow Jobs, Dirty Talk, Docking, Face-Fucking, First Kiss, Frottage, M/M, Post-Coital Cuddling, Rough Kissing, Rough Sex, Shower Sex, Teasing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-11
Updated: 2014-06-20
Packaged: 2018-01-12 00:23:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 33,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1179690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annie_reckson/pseuds/annie_reckson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Winning isn't everything, it's the only thing."  - Vince Lombardi</p>
<p>Oh yes, it's a football AU. No, not THAT football. American football!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Just the Basics

**Author's Note:**

> Frustratingly, while Johnlock has so many AUs that it's getting ridiculous at this point (I say that in jest because I don't think I've met a Johnlock AU that I didn't like) I've only seen maybe two AUs that involve the lovely pairing that is Sherstrade, and none that match the length of Performance in a Leading Role or Measure of a Gentleman (both of which are obviously fantastic so read those...later. Not now. Read this now.)
> 
> Here is my shot at filling that gap (and also just an excuse for me to write about my favorite sport) but don't feel like you won't enjoy it if you don't like/aren't familiar with American football, there will be tons of dicks doing things, just dicks everywhere, I promise you.

Honestly, this chapter can be skipped if you want to get right into the story, I really only want to take the chance to explain the basics of American football and describe some of the positions (for brevity's sake, I'll skip over a few and only focus on the ones that impact the story). Without further adieu, A Crash Course on American Football. 

An easy way to describe American football would be "a glorified game of capture the flag" but it's much more than that. Unlike non-American football, hockey, lacrosse, handball, and the like, a great deal of strategy is involved in moving the football from one side of the field to the other. 

A football field is 100 yards long from one endzone to the other. At the center is the 50-yard line and the numbers decrease until they reach the respective endzones (so there are two 20-yard lines that are thirty yards each from the 50-yard line, two 30-yard lines, etc). 

At the beginning of each game, one team punts it to the other (this is decided via coin toss) to start the game. When a team is punted to, they have the option of calling for a "fair catch" (starting the ball exactly where they catch it), catching the ball and running as far as they can to the other side of the field before they're tackled, or what's called a "touchback" - which occurs when the ball is caught inside the endzone on the other side of the field - which means the ball will be placed on the 20-yard line. Alternatively, if the ball isn't caught, then it will be placed wherever the ball lands (defenses often take advantage of this by trying to get it as close to the 1-yard line as possible). Where the ball is placed denotes the Field Position (also called the Line of Scrimmage) where the offense will start their series.

Offenses try to move to their endzone via a series of what are called "downs". The goal is to make it at least 10 yards from the Line of Scrimmage in three attempts or "downs", so offenses will start with 1st-and-10 meaning it's the 1st Down and they have 10 yards to go to get another 1st Down. Assuming they're able to go 5 yards, that will put them at 2nd-and-5, meaning it's their 2nd Down and they have 5 yards to go. Of course teams can, and do, have plays that are longer than that (a good quarterback can often throw passes up to 60 yards), but if a team fails to advance, then the ball is punted to the other team who will start their own series. 

Gosh, typing it all out makes it seem so complicated, but it really isn't! Hopefully I can expound more on it through the story, but please feel free to ask any questions.

Now, Positions! Each team is divided into an Offense and a Defense. (A helpful diagram can be found [here](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:American_Football_Positions.svg))

Offense:

Quarterback - The leader of the offense. This player is responsible for getting the ball into the endzone, either through passing it, handing it off, or running it himself.

Wide Receiver - Their job is to catch passes thrown by the Quarterback, so they are often in what's known as the "backfield", i.e - far from the Line of Scrimmage and near the endzone. They are often tall, thin, and long-legged. 

Tight End - Shorter and stockier than Wide Receivers, Tight Ends can also catch passes, but more often are used in running, or "rushing", plays. Because of their strong stature, they are also heavily used to block for Wide Receivers and Running Backs

Running Back - Size-wise, they are typically a happy medium between Tight Ends and Wide Receivers - not as lanky as WRs and not as stout as TEs. Their main job is the execution of rushing plays.

Center - The center has three important jobs: Call out blocking assignments for the other Offensive Lineman, snap the ball successfully to the QB, and block against any Defensive players trying to get to the QB

Guard - Offensive linemen that block for the QB and try to block for rushing and passing plays

 

Defense:

Cornerback - Responsible for covering WRs and preventing them from making a catch, typically either by swatting the ball away or catching it themselves. 

Middle Linebacker - Responsible for covering Offensive players trying to make rushing plays and blitzing the QB (tackling the QB while they still have the ball, resulting in a loss of yards for the Offense). Is also responsible for calling defensive plays

Outside Linebacker - Responsible for covering Offensive players trying to make rushing plays

Safety - Last line of defense in preventing passes. Safeties play the furthest back in the field and focus on breaking up deep passes.

 

Alright, now less technical talk so we can hurry up and get to the good stuff!

 

 


	2. Inside ESPN Studios

(The familiar theme music for Sportscenter plays, camera fades in to STUART SCOTT sitting at the ESPN desk)

STUART SCOTT: Exciting news this week in the NFL as Greg Lestrade, one of the most reliable and - dare I say it - underappreciated quarterbacks in the league, signed a deal with the upstart LA Silver Blazes, the team officially replacing the St Louis Rams at the start of this season. Obviously with training camp starting in the next couple of weeks, his schedule is about to get a lot busier, but he’s taken the time out today to discuss his decision with us. 

(camera pans back to show LESTRADE as SCOTT turns towards him) 

SCOTT: How are you today, Greg?

GREG LESTRADE: I’m absolutely fantastic, Stuart. Very excited for the upcoming season.

SCOTT: You’ve played for the Buffalo Bills for the past eight seasons, what made you decide to change teams? And why the blazes did you choose the Silver Blazes?

LESTRADE: (half-hearted chuckle) I still have a ton of love and respect for the Bills, and especially for the fans. But I saw an opportunity, and a sunnier climate, and decided that I had to take it.

SCOTT: So you feel this team is more solid?

LESTRADE: Oh, it’s not that, Stuart. I will miss playing with many of my teammates from the Bills, there are a lot of really great guys there. But given the current roster of this team, I just couldn’t resist.

SCOTT: That’s right, just a couple of months ago Coach Hudson surprised everyone by signing John Watson as a tight end just eight months after his season-ending shoulder injury.

LESTRADE: John is definitely scrappy and a player that I’ve wanted to pass to for years. Almost got a chance in the Pro Bowl a few years ago but Brady ended up in the huddle with him, so that was a disappointment. 

SCOTT: Are you at all worried about his readiness to play?

LESTRADE: Not at all. From what I’ve heard, he’s eager to get back on the field. 

SCOTT: And of course we’d be remiss not to mention Sherlock Holmes. He was the franchise wide receiver when the team was still the Rams, do you think that trend will continue?

LESTRADE: Of course, he’s got a lot of talent and it’s going to be a pleasure to throw to him.  
SCOTT: In the past, his ego has sometimes gotten the best of him during games. Last year he was even ejected in the second quarter for loudly berating his own quarterback, is that something you’re worried about?

LESTRADE: (smiles and winks) Oh c’mon Stuart, you know me, you think I’m worried about that?

SCOTT: (laughs) Well alright, unfortunately that’s all the time we have but thanks so much for joining us today. Any parting words?

LESTRADE: Thank you Stuart. I’m just excited to bring the Lombardi trophy to the good people of Los Angeles (smirks and nods at the camera)

SCOTT: (turns back towards the camera) Alright, coming up next, how has the rainy weather in Edinburgh affected Tiger Woods’s swing?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Currently, the city of Los Angeles does not have a football team, but every year the NFL head offices push more and more to get a franchise there. Right now, the option most people are going with is to move the current St. Louis Rams to Los Angeles, rather than trying to add a new team. 
> 
> The Brady mentioned is Tom Brady, current QB for the New England Patriots, a rival team of the Buffalo Bills
> 
> The Pro Bowl used to be a sort of All-Star game where teams from the two NFL divisions - the NFC and the AFC - would face off against each other (this year the rules have sort of changed).
> 
> Also, despite having a fantastic fanbase, the Buffalo Bills are pretty awful and have been for the past decade or so (apologies to Buffalo Bills fans!)


	3. Three Weeks Before Training Camp

The parking lot was almost empty when Greg pulled in, but that was to be expected. Once training camp started there'd be shiny, expensive cars as far as the eye could see. Not even all of the front office personnel were present, making the building seem a bit like a ghost town as he made his way to Coach Hudson's office, folding up the sleeves of his plaid shirt on the way as a defense against the oppressive heat.

Coach Hudson's office was easy enough to find - the shiny nameplate that read "MARTHA HUDSON" was more than a bit helpful - and Greg opened the door to find the friendly older woman busy on the phone. She smiled and waved him in enthusiastically before continuing to argue with whomever was on the other line.

"Yes dear, I told you I need the uniforms in this week.... I already sent you the colors.... Make sure the blue isn't too dark, I don't want us to be mistaken for those dreadful Raiders.... If they're not in my building by Friday you WILL be hearing from me again....Ta, dearie."

She hung up and smiled again at Greg, "So, your interview went well this morning."

"Yeah, it was just a bit of fluff. You know how those pieces go."

"Still, we need all the good publicity we can get. New city, relatively new team, new quarterback." She gave him a sly wink.

"Thank you so much for this opportunity, by the way. I'm not sure if I thanked you earlier."

She chuckled, "Oh, don't mention it, dear. Someone of your talent shouldn't be wasting away on some nothing team. We've got a real chance here with you at the helm."

"Yeah, I'm excited about us getting Watson. You think he'll be healthy enough to play?"

"Oh of course! A man like that withers away unless he's on a football field."

Greg started playing with his hands, "I was checking out the draft acquisitions this morning and I have to say that you made some very good choices. I can't believe we managed to get Sally Donovan. She's the best center I've ever seen."

Coach Hudson nodded, "She's certainly the best center Auburn ever had. And I need the best to protect my quarterback." 

At that moment, Coach Hudson's door burst open and an exasperated figure rushed in before slamming the door shut again. Greg looked up to see the obviously angry figure of Sherlock Holmes leaning on the chair next to him. The purple V-neck and dark jeans he was wearing contrasted far too well with the paleness of his skin.

The newcomer bellowed, "COACH HUDSON, we TALKED about Phillip Anderson!"

"Yes, and I decided that we need a right tackle and he was the best option on the table."

Sherlock flopped down in the chair and crossed his arms, obviously sulking, "He won't WORK with me! I can't trust him to block the way for me, I can barely trust him to walk across the field without stumbling!"

"Now Sherlock-"

Greg interrupted, "If I may, I'm familiar with how Anderson plays. Let me use him at right guard, his skills could work better there. If it's alright, I'll work with him, see what I can do," He shrugged, "I’m sure he's got promise. I think... Lang?... is at right guard right now, we could just put him at right tackle."

Coach Hudson beamed, "That just might work," She turned towards the still-sulking Sherlock, "By the way, Sherlock, meet your new quarterback."

Sherlock looked at Greg and raised an eyebrow, "I'm aware of him," He smirked, "Statistically, Lestrade, you're the best quarterback in the game. So why have you only made it to the playoffs twice? Come here to see if the problem was the team.... or you?" He flicked an errant curl away from his face for effect.

Before Greg could respond, Coach tutted, "Now Sherlock, don't be rude. You boys stay put, I'm going to grab a coffee."

Sherlock pulled out his phone and looked over his shoulder as she was walking out, "Black, two sugars please."

She turned around quickly, "Only because I'm already getting one. I'm your coach dear, not your housekeeper."

Sherlock waited until she left then leaned towards Lestrade, "Miami or Palm Springs?"

Greg stared at him, "I'm sorry?"

Sherlock resumed typing on his phone, "Tan lines."

"Again, what?"

He rolled his eyes, "Your skin is noticeably tanned yet you have no tan lines. Except for on the ring finger on your left hand. So recently divorced. Where does a recently divorced man of your...persuasion...go on a beach vacation this time of year," He lowered his phone and looked Greg right in the eye, "Miami or Palm Springs?"

Greg was taken aback, "Miami."

"Good choice. No wonder you're in such good spirits," He stood up quickly, "Got to be popping off though. I'll catch my coffee on the way out, see you in a few weeks, Lestrade."

"Now hold on a second what exactly-" but Holmes was gone before Greg could finish, leaving him with nothing but a gaping mouth.

Coach Hudson came in a moment later, shaking her head, "I'm afraid he's always like that."

Greg sighed and rubbed his forehead, "It's going to be quite a season, isn't it..."

Coach Hudson just gave him a knowing smile as she sipped her coffee.


	4. Training Camp Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I've forgotten to mention, but, seeing as it is American football, I've Americanised all the characters except Sherlock. Because Sherlock can never really be anything but British. I'm not even sure it'll be noticeable or impact the story in any way but...I felt like mentioning it.

Months later,  in the mornings when Greg would wake up with his nose buried in a tangle of insufferable curls, he would think back to that first meeting and the nonchalance Sherlock had tried so hard to affect. Sometimes Greg would convince himself that he’d been smitten with the arrogant bastard from that moment onwards, but that wasn’t exactly true.

 

In the three weeks between Greg’s visit with Coach Hudson and the beginning of training camp, he had made all attempts to settle in to his new city: moving into a new house, getting to know his neighbors, doing interviews with a handful of local news stations and papers. He had never been a fan of big cities, but found himself acclimating well. He’d even gone out to have a few beers with John Watson, hoping to build a relationship with who Greg knew would be a key part of their new offense.

So by the time he pulled into the parking lot for the second time on the first day of training, Los Angeles already felt a little bit like home. And he found himself actually looking forward to meeting and training with a relatively new group of people. He’d spent the last week going over the playbook and trying to figure out the best ways to use the players he was given.

It was actually kind of shocking how many new players the Silver Blazes had in their roster. When it was announced that the team would be moving from St. Louis, quite a few franchise players had decided to jump ship rather than make the move to LA. Not that LA was a bad place to play, but any team would have difficulty adjusting to a new market, and many players had made the choice to opt out of the necessary growing pains. As a result, Greg found himself working with an almost brand-new offensive line. People might have wanted to assume that he felt daunted by the difficult task at hand, but he had always enjoyed a challenge.

He jogged lightly onto the field, dressed casually in a t-shirt and basketball shorts, and glanced around to see who else was already there. Sally Donovan had a pair of earbuds in and was busy stretching by the sidelines, Phillip Anderson and the rest of the offensive linemen were taking turns blocking each other, Paul Dimmock and Bill Wiggins - two young players with more than enough talent to succeed as his main running backs - were jogging and chatting their way around the field, and in the middle of the field, as if he had orchestrated it specifically to catch Greg’s eye, Sherlock Holmes stood joking around with John Watson. Apparently John had just told a joke when Greg glanced over because Sherlock had his head thrown back in laughter. After a moment, he looked forward again, caught Greg’s eye, and gave Greg a wide grin.

Greg returned it briefly and - trying hard to ignore the annoying warmth that was growing in his belly - sought out Coach Stamford, the offensive coach, to figure out which drills he wanted to run. If anything, he was eager to see what delights his receiving corps had in store for him.

For the most part it was the usual mix of easy draw plays and screen passes, partly to get an idea of Paul and Bill were capable of, but mostly to help John get back into the swing of things. Already Greg could feel a natural ease between him and John and knew they’d play together well - John seemed to know exactly when to turn his head or exactly when to stop to perfectly catch whatever Greg threw at him. He noticed that John, for whatever reason, seemed to favor his right leg and would only run for short distances before diving into the defensive linemen trying to stop him. He decided he’d have a chat with him about it later; as far as Greg knew, John hadn’t sustained any sort of leg injury and he needed him at his best.

The frustration came later, when he started working on the pass plays. At first, he thought that Sherlock had just misheard him when the receiver ran an Out route instead of a Slant route. But on the next play, when Greg knew that he had clearly called for a Post route and he watched - ball firmly clasped in hand - as Sherlock clearly ran a Flag route, that Greg realised the dick was deliberately disobeying his calls. Frustrated, Greg spiked the ball aggressively and stomped down the field to where Sherlock was stood with his arms crossed, clearly trying to look confused rather than guilty and failing.

Greg grabbed his facemask and tugged it forcefully forward, “Listen, you ass, I’m not sure who you think you are, but I am the leader of this offense and we will run the plays that I call-”

“I was just trying-”

“I don’t CARE what you were trying to do. I don’t know you and I haven’t played with you. I need to know what you’re capable of, besides being an arrogant little shit who thinks he knows better than his quarterback. Think you can handle that? Maybe put that fucking ego I’ve heard so much about aside for a bit and do as I fucking say?” Greg punctuated his statement by shoving Sherlock’s helmet backwards.

Rather than answering, Sherlock stood contemptuously for a few seconds before turning on his heel and stalking off the field in a sulk. Greg watched as he ripped off his helmet, threw it on the bench, and ruffled a hand through his hair before disappearing into the locker rooms.

Now wasn’t the time to lose the team though, “Alright everyone,” Greg twirled around to face the rest of his offensive line, “Let’s try running the passes with Hopkins, instead,” He pointed at the rookie looking uncertain as he lingered near the bench, “Think you can handle a few plays, Stanley?”

Somehow, he should have expected this from what he’d heard about Holmes, but it still disappointed him that their first practice had gone so miserably. Hopkins was talented, for sure, but his skills weren’t anywhere near what Greg knew Sherlock was capable of doing. He had to somehow get Sherlock to trust him, trust that Greg knew what he was doing.

In the locker rooms later, John tried to soothe things, “Look, Greg, you did well today.”

Greg smirked, “John, the performance you should be worrying about is yours. You might have exceeded my expectations for a first practice, but I’m worried about your leg.”

“My leg? Oh...yeah it’s been bothering me ever since the injury. The doctors can’t find anything, but I just...can’t shake it. Don’t worry Greg, I won’t let it hold me back.”

“Be careful, John. For this team to succeed, I need you. I need you and...Holmes.”

John looked down, “Hey, I...know he’s a bit of an asshole and I’ve really just met him myself but, he’s a great player. He just...thinks he knows better than anyone else. Give him a chance to warm up to you.”

Greg sighed as he pulled a clean shirt on, “Yeah, he’s a great player. And someday he might even be a good one.”

***

That night, Greg was rifling through his fridge trying to decide which frozen dinner to microwave when his doorbell rang. He hesitated - he wasn’t expecting anyone and not too many people other than his immediate neighbors knew where he lived. Slowly, he walked towards the door and looked through the peephole, greeted with the sight of an impatient Sherlock Holmes.

He groaned and pulled the door open, “What do you want Sherl-”

Sherlock held up a hand, “I’m here to make amends, alright?” In his other hand was a paper takeout bag and under his arm was a six-pack of beer.

Greg stepped aside to let him in, “You didn’t really have to come all the way out here.”

“I know I didn’t,” Sherlock answered as he made his way to the kitchen, taking in the different aspects of Greg’s house as he went, “But you’re right, I can be an arrogant little shit and,” He set the food and beer down and looked Greg right in the eye, “I know that I was in the wrong today.”

Greg smiled, “I’m sorry, what?”

He chuckled dryly, “You possibly won’t hear me say it again to I hope you enjoyed it. I’m not used to having a serviceable quarterback, much less a...talented one. You’re no doubt aware of what I’ve been subjected to in the past.”

Greg crossed his arms, “So this is a peace offering, then?”

Sherlock handed him a beer before opening one for himself, “Let’s just say that while I did have a good reason for my actions today, I was a bit out of line. And I realise that.”

He took a quick sip, “Oh really? And what reason would that be?”

Sherlock sighed, “You have got an incredible arm, yet you insist on sticking to slant passes and short routes. I don’t know why that is! When I ran that Flag route today, you could have easily thrown the pass to me. You’ve got the strength, you’ve got the control, you’ve got the aim. But you play it too safe.”

“Huh,” Greg looked down, “So that’s what you were doing, trying to challenge me?”

“Trying to challenge this whole TEAM. I’ve been playing with lousy quarterbacks and worse teammates for too long and THIS year I believe we have what it takes to win! But what I need is a quarterback who isn’t afraid to throw the deep pass. I need John Watson to quit with this psychosomatic leg injury he thinks he has-”

“That’s what it is then?”

“Oh of course. He only thinks to favor it when he’s walking and when he takes those short runs.”

“So what can be done about it?”

Sherlock smiled, “So you will work with me?”

“I want this to be the best possible team in the league, but I do have one condition.”

“Oh really?” Sherlock leaned forward with his elbows on the kitchen counter.

“One more stunt like you pulled today and the only time I will EVER throw a pass to you is if everyone else is covered. And that will ONLY be if I don’t think I can gain the yardage myself. The only time you’ll see the endzone is if Mike Stamford decides to grace you with a punt return.”

Sherlock gave him a hateful glare, “You’ll only be ruining yourself. You know I’m the best receiver you have.”

“I need you on my side. I need you to trust me and I need this team to accept me as their leader. I can’t do that if I’ve got a wide receiver who won’t listen to me.”

He took a long sip, “Alright. But will you accept my input?”

“I’ll accept pretty much anything from you as long as you keep bringing takeout and beer over.”

Sherlock grinned, “Then I suppose you’ll be seeing quite a lot of me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick note on the types of plays mentioned in this chapter:
> 
> Draw play - In a draw play, the offensive line drops into pass blocking positions, and the quarterback takes a drop as though he were going to pass. He then hands the ball off to his running back (or keeps it himself) and runs forward past the rushing defenders.
> 
> Screen play - A screen pass is a pass that is normally thrown to a receiver or running back behind the line of scrimmage. It is thrown behind the line of scrimmage so that the pulling linemen can get their blocks established.
> 
> Out Route - An out route will usually feature the receiver running 7 to 10 yards downfield and then making a 90 degree turn towards the sideline.
> 
> Slant Route - A receiver takes two steps or more downfield then cuts diagonally across the field behind the linebackers and in front of the safeties.
> 
> Post Route - A post is a deep play where wide receivers run straight down the field a short distance (10-15 yards), and then angle in towards the center of the field (toward the goal 'posts') where the ball is caught at high speed.
> 
> Flag Route - A Flag is a deep play where wide receivers run straight down the field a long distance (30-50 yards), and then angle out towards the end zone and sideline. It takes its name from the flags that marked the ends of the goal and end lines before the introduction of flexible pylons.


	5. Training Camp Part 2

A few days later, Greg was at the team gym doing bicep curls when he noticed John Watson on the other side of the room doing squats with what looked like an 120 lb barbell across his shoulders. Sherlock stood behind him, both spotting him and counting out reps. Greg accidentally caught Sherlock’s eye in the mirror opposite them and received a cheeky grin as his reward. Greg self-consciously smiled back and found himself staring until his cheeks started burning.

Sherlock continued to count for John and occasionally give a word or two of encouragement, but flicked his eyes up at Greg every minute or so as if to say, _Do you see? I was right; completely psychosomatic. He doesn't even realise that it should be hurting now._ And he would have been right, John should have been howling in pain if he'd actually injured his leg. Instead, he not only kept pace with his squats, but smiled occasionally as he did it.

That afternoon, Greg recruited some of the defensive linemen and Dimmock to help him run a few drills with Anderson. He knew Anderson could block defenders - and with Donovan playing center Lestrade felt fairly certain that he personally would be safe in the pocket - but he needed Anderson to work on blocking forwards so that running backs and tight ends could break through the defensive line.

Despite his arrogance - the kind that came with inexperience rather than actual confidence - Anderson was progressing after a few hours and responded well to Greg's critiques. With time and focus, Greg reasoned, Phillip could become one of the best in the league.

But despite his determined focus, he couldn't help but occasionally cast his eyes on the other side of the field where Sherlock was busy jogging back and forth - pulling up his knees as high as his collarbone - while trying to get John to join in. John would go a few laps with him before stopping abruptly and shaking his head, often gesturing towards his leg as he did so. Greg had to stifle a chuckle when he saw Sherlock literally huff in annoyance when he was once again unable to keep John distracted and running.

“What do you think’s up with those two?” Phillip had taken his helmet off and stood chatting next to Sally.

"I don't know," She replied, "But I don't like him. Thinks he knows everything. I hate that type, they're always dicks."

Greg gave them both a look, "And he's an integral part of this team, so maybe you should reserve your judgements."

Hopkins and a few of the running backs chose that moment to try and join in the sprints, much to Sherlock's obvious annoyance; Greg could see the petulant look on his face from across the field and it nearly made him chuckle.

Sally piped up again, "Those two are awfully chummy, though."

"If Watson is half the man everyone says he is, he'll probably rub off on him and maybe temper that ego." Anderson offered, still half-sneering

"Oh, he’ll rub off on him, I bet.” Sally giggled, elbowing Phillip until he joined in.

Greg swung around “Alright alright, let’s get back to practicing. Gossipin’ like a bunch of little old ladies isn’t going to help us in a few weeks.”

Still, even as Greg said that, he couldn’t help but notice when they put their arm around each other at the end of practice to walk off the field. Or in the locker room when he overheard them talking about dinner plans. And of course Sherlock knew a nice, cosy, small, intimate Italian place, he seemed to be excelling at everything else so far.

Jealousy had never been something Greg suffered from, and as he drove himself home, he wondered why he was jealous in the first place. Sure, it had been nice when Sherlock had showed up at his house the other night and he rather liked the way Sherlock’s eyes would sometimes flash when he was looking at him, especially when the receiver thought he was being especially clever. But that shouldn’t explain why Greg desperately wanted to be the one sitting across a small table, sharing a bottle of overpriced wine, and watch Sherlock’s eyes glimmer as he recounted the events of the day. Instead he was opening the door to a house that was, in all regards, a bit too big for a bachelor and definitely too lonely.

He should get a dog. Or at least a cat.

 

Later that night, after he’d finished some disappointing microwaved chicken parmesan with a bit of steamed broccoli, he opened his second beer of the night and sat on the couch, staring at the open playbook and not focusing on any of it. His mind was, annoyingly, still elsewhere. Shaking his head, he chastised himself for his lack of focus just as he heard the chime of his doorbell. Confused, Greg checked his watch: it was almost midnight; what sort of person would be at his door this late?

As if on cue, a deep voice sounded through the door, “Lestrade! I know you’re not asleep, all of your lights are still on!”

Greg sighed and opened the door, his emotions wavering somewhere between curious and elated. He pretended to be perturbed at the sight of Sherlock grinning and leaning against his door frame, but a smile stubbornly tugged at the corners of his mouth. And Sherlock definitely noticed, raising an eyebrow as he brushed past Greg into the living room and flopped onto an armchair.

It only took a second for Sherlock to notice the playbook splayed open, “Oh Lestrade, it’s so adorable how you’re always so....on.” He giggled and rested his cheek in his right palm.

Adorable? “I see you had a little bit at dinner, eh?”

He scoffed, “Oh, just a couple glasses of wine, Lestrade. No need to nanny me. And isn’t that your second beer, anyway?”

Greg sat down opposite and crossed his arms, “You’re a bit of a lightweight then, eh?”

The cocky grin remained, “Well, we don’t all drink as much as some.”

“Calling me a drunk, then?”

“Just a...seasoned drinker.”

“Alright so...did you just swing by here to insult me, then?”

Sherlock leaned forward and rested his chin on his fists, “No, I think I just well...Didn’t really get a chance to discuss strategy with you at practice today - “

“Yeah, you were a bit distracted.”

If Sherlock noticed the envy dripping from his words, he didn’t mention it, “Yes, well. John has become my pet project for now. As I see Anderson has become yours.”

Greg shrugged, “He’s got potential. If nothing else, with him and Sally I’m going to feel very safe in the pocket.”

Sherlock rolled his head to side, smushing his cheek, “Ah yes, the lovely Sally. I have to say that she seems like quite a delight.”

“I don’t think I could ask for a better center. Especially for a rookie,” Greg paused, “So this is really why you came over here tipsy at midnight?”

Sherlock leaned back and shrugged, “It’s on my way home, I figured you’d still be awake. Wasn’t ready to go home, I’m sure you’re aware of how that feels.” He ended his sentence by turning and looking Greg directly in the eye.

It threw Greg off a bit, “Now...now...now wait a second. You and John had dinner for...five hours now?”

He waved a hand dismissively, “Don’t be ridiculous Lestrade. We didn’t go to dinner directly after practice, that would be absurd,” Sherlock narrowed his eyes, “Why would it matter?”

"It...it doesn't. I'm just, y'know, curious."

Sherlock eyed him up and down drowsily, "I'm sure,"  He smirked before laying himself across the armchair.


	6. Training Camp Part 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah yes, the dicks are finally out

A few days later at practice, Greg stood on the sidelines chatting with Mike Stamford while various members of the offensive line worked out routes around defensive players. Sherlock made sure, of course, to line up next to John at just about every snap. Just the sight of it made Greg crinkle his nose in annoyance; today had been the first time he'd seen Sherlock since the ass had passed out on his chair. And he would never admit how disappointed he was when he woke up the next morning to find Holmes gone.

He could feel his neck veins starting to pop as he clenched his jaw, so he diverted his attention to the other side of the field where Molly Hooper, the team’s kicker, was practicing techniques while Tobias Gregson, Greg’s back-up, held the ball for her. Molly was a fairly recent addition, only being traded to the team from Buffalo that week, and Greg was more than happy to see her again; she had the legs of an angry horse. He knew he’d never forget the 55-yarder she kicked to clinch Buffalo’s first winning season in a decade. And now she was another piece in what was shaping up to be a very talented team.

Mike flipped through a few pages on his clipboard, “So the first few games, I was thinking we could focus more on passing, y’know, give John time to find his legs again.”

Greg shook his head, “I respect that, but we can’t coddle him, Mike.”

“Coddling him would be better than taking a risk of him re-injuring himself.”

He scoffed, “You and I both know that his shoulder is healed. He’s catching passes like they’re nothing. Sherlock seems to think-”

Mike chuckled, “Oh, Sherlock...”

“You know he’s not messing around. And he thinks that the leg injury is all in John’s head. Watson is doing better, but,” Greg grimaced, “We just need something that’ll make him forget about his leg.”

Mike tapped the pen against his teeth, “I’ll draw something up,” He glanced over at Greg, “Speaking of Holmes, he seems to think you’re ready to start throwing the long passes again, should I start adding those to the list?”

Greg rolled his eyes, “He just has everything figured out doesn’t he?” He switched his focus to the lanky busybody who was busy jogging backwards and looking far too nice in baggy gym shorts.

Another chuckle escaped from Stamford, “Ah well, you know how the Brits are, they always think they’re smarter than us.”

“Even at our own game, it would seem.”

 

***

 

Lestrade had stayed far too long working things out with Mike, and as a result, most everyone had cleared out by the time he finally headed towards the showers. He hadn’t done much working out that day, but the summer sun still made him feel sweaty and sticky. And not in the way he’d prefer.

Unsurprisingly, the locker room was empty when he undressed and grabbed a towel from his locker. The showers were eerily silent and he wondered how he had managed to avoid noticing everyone else leaving. Choosing a stall at random, he closed the curtain and had just gotten the water at the perfect temperature when he heard a shower further down from him turn on. He only had a brief moment to wonder who it could be before his curtain was whooshed aside and a pale hand pushed gently against his chest, pressing him against the cool tile.

“Well, Lestrade, I’d say I didn’t expect to see you here so late, but that would be a lie.” Sherlock grinned at him in a way that seemed to call multiple parts of his body to attention.

Greg struggled for words, “Sherlock...why are you in my shower?” He placed one hand on Sherlock’s arm and the other on his chest, trying to gain leverage.

Sherlock only pressed closer to him, “Oh, we could dance around this for weeks, but I see the way you look at me and,” He leaned his face closer until they were mere inches apart, “I know you see the way I look at you so I just...figured....”

Greg let out a small gasp before Sherlock crushed their lips together, moving his hand from Greg’s chest to his shoulder and using the other one to grab onto Greg’s hip. He shuddered when he realised that their bodies were touching from thighs to...lips. Really really fantastic lips that were firmly pressed against his, only letting up briefly to let Sherlock’s tongue slide along Greg’s bottom lip, urging his mouth open.

He moaned as Sherlock tangled their tongues together and tilted his head to deepen the kiss. Holmes inhaled deeply and laced the fingers of his left hand with Greg's right before lifting and planting them behind Greg's head, allowing him to lean into Greg further.

Right when Greg felt close to giving in and losing himself, Sherlock pulled back. His face was still close enough that Greg could feel his breath, but his eyes were busy roaming over Greg's face.

Sherlock frowned, "You look confused, why?"

Greg spluttered out, without thinking, "I just thought.... You and Watson...."

A voice from a few stalls down called out, "I'm still not actually gay, you know."

Greg's eyes widened, "Are you fucking joking, he's in here?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, "Of course, who did you think was showering?"

"Not another person! I assumed you had turned it on!"

He stepped back, "Why would I turn a shower on then step into yours?"

"I don't -" Greg found himself actually at a loss, "Let go of me, I'm not getting off with another person here."

"I appreciate that very much." John called out.

"Shut it, Watson. I'd like to be able to look you in the eye after this."

Sherlock leaned forward again, "Tell me that I can come over tonight." The fingers on his free hand were gently rubbing up and down Greg's torso.

Greg, however, was still a bit perturbed at his gall, "What makes you think I'd want you to?

"Well," He looked up at their joined hands, "I can feel your pulse, for one. But, there's also..." He glanced down at Greg's obviously erect cock and smirked. Teasingly, he ran his pointer finger gently up the entire length of it.

Greg shuddered and shut his eyes, "Good Christ, yes."

"Brilliant. I'll see you soon, then." He finally let Greg's hand go and trailed his own down his face and chest, stopping just above Greg's belly button before turning and leaving the shower stall.

Greg continued leaning against the cool tile and watched Sherlock walk away, and it was truly glorious to watch him walk away. He then stared down at his cock, bobbing and in dire need of attention. Slipping a hand around it, he briefly contemplated getting himself off quickly in the shower.

"Don't even think about it, dude," John called out, as if he'd read his mind, "I'm still in here."

"You have no idea what I was thinking, Watson."

"Look, I just... I need to get this shampoo rinsed out. Then you can do whatever you want."

Greg groaned. He felt trapped; he could either walk through the locker room with a painful, erect cock or wait until John left, knowing full well that John would know exactly what he was doing.

The only thing he knew for certain was that he was going to absolutely tear Sherlock Holmes apart tonight.

 

***

 

When the doorbell finally rang a few hours later, Greg was sitting comfortably on his couch, reading a Sports Illustrated and sipping a cup of coffee that he didn’t need but drank anyway because it made his sore muscles feel better. He tried to act as casual as possible as he opened his front door, even carrying his mug with him and enjoying a sip as he took in an eyeful of Sherlock Holmes in what looked like a rather expensive coat.

“It’s a bit warm for that, isn’t it?” He asked, giving him a wink.

Sherlock’s only response was to sweep past him into the living room, where he toed off his shoes and waited until Greg was back inside and facing him. With one eyebrow raised and his lips deliciously parted, he very slowly undid each button, showing an expanse of pale skin underneath and nothing else - save a pair of black pants that were doing very little to contain Sherlock’s obvious bulge. Any word Greg might have said was caught in his throat as he narrowly avoided dropping his coffee right then and there. Sherlock grinned at him slyly and stepped gracefully towards him, plucking the mug out of his hand and placing it on a side table.

He leaned in to whisper in Greg’s ear, “You’re right, dreadfully hot this time of season. It’s rather nice to be rid of it,” He pulled back to look Greg in the eye, “Now, where were we?”

Greg took initiative and smashed his lips against Sherlock, grabbing his hips and pulling him forcefully towards him. Sherlock groaned in appreciation and leaned more into the kiss as he ran his slim hands up Greg’s shirt and onto his bare skin. Lips and tongues moved and collided together in feverish want until Greg broke away and started pressing wet kisses across Sherlock’s ridiculous jawbone and down his absurdly long neck.

He had just taken a delicious bite of shoulder muscle when Sherlock mumbled out, “Christ, Lestrade...bedroom?”

Greg looked up, furrowed his brows, then gestured behind him, “No. Couch.” And quickly removed his shirt, tossing it carelessly.

Sherlock’s eyes widened hungrily and Greg couldn’t help but take another kiss as he pulled him towards the couch and pushed him gracelessly onto it. Slowly, carefully, Greg slid his thumbs under the waistband on his shorts and slid them downwards, completely freeing his already-erect cock. He watched Sherlock absentmindedly stroking one hand up and down his chest while watching him through heavily-lidded eyes and nearly whimpered with lust. He quickly straddled the younger man and ran his own hands up the inhumanly pale chest, tangling his fingers in the sparse hair.

Greg tilted his head, “I’m sure you think this is going to be one sweet, romantic night of taking it easy and getting to know each other, right?” He traced his thumbs along Sherlock’s hipbones, “Don’t worry, that night will come, if you want it. But for now, I have to say that I was a bit put-out by your display earlier. Seducing me in the shower when another person was there, knowing I would want more and wouldn’t be able to get it. You did it on purpose didn’t you?”

Sherlock bit his lip and nodded, “Of course.”

Greg swiftly removed Sherlock’s pants then pinned his arms above his head, lowering his body and simultaneously aligning their cocks. He watched Sherlock’s eyes shudder as the skin of their cocks rubbed together for this first time. Greg taunted him by rolling his hips a fraction of inch, causing the younger man to grit his teeth and exhale loudly.

“Don’t worry, I don’t plan on teasing you for long. If anything, I’m going to make you come the hardest you have in your entire life.”

With that, Greg firmly planted his knees and began furiously snapping his hips against Sherlock, creating a delicious friction that was almost enough. He slowed for a second to remove one of his hands and lower it to Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock, panting, looked at him confused for a second before licking his tongue slowly up Greg’s palm. The combination of Sherlock’s intense gaze and the rough texture of his tongue was enough to make Greg want to cry out right then. Fighting the urge - Not yet not yet - he moved his hand between their bodies and grasped their grinding cocks. He squeezed and hastily pumped his hand up and down. It only took what seemed like a moment for Sherlock’s body to start spasming underneath him and warm liquid to spill over his hand.

“Fuck...Christ, Lestrade. Fuck....fuck...”

Greg’s orgasm quickly followed, blinding him for a moment before he opened his eyes to find himself collapsed on top of Sherlock’s heaving, satiated body. Greg grinned and pushed himself up gingerly to grab a damp hand-towel from the kitchen for them. After wiping up most of the mess, Greg extended his hand to lift Sherlock up from the couch, wrapping an arm around his waist for support.

Greg leaned in to give him a chaste kiss on the neck, “Now I’m taking you to bed.”

Sherlock chuckled, “Not sure I’ll be much good for a bit, now.”

He helped Sherlock lay down before climbing in himself, “No worries about that, I just want to sleep next to you,” He let Sherlock wrap his arms around him and lay his head on Greg’s chest, “Promise me something though...”

Sherlock tilted his head up - looking far more innocent than someone so recently debauched had any right to be - “Hmm?”

Greg wrapped an arm around him protectively, “Don’t leave before I wake up, okay?”


	7. Training Camp Part 4

" _Mon coeur de silex vite prend feu_..."

Greg felt fingers lightly stroking through his short hair.

" _Ton coeur de pyrex résiste au feu_...”

Light kisses peppered across his shoulder blades.

“ _Je suis bien perplexe je ne veux_...”

His bed felt warmer than than normal.

“ _Me résoudre aux_ \- Oh, you’re awake.”

Greg slowly opened his eyes and rolled over on his back to see Sherlock resting on his elbow beside him. He honestly hadn’t expected him to honor his request and the fact that he had brought a lazy smile to Greg’s face. He lifted an arm up around the back of Sherlock’s neck to pull him down into a quick, soft kiss.

“Good morning to you as well,” Greg murmured once he’d released Sherlock, his voice still gravelly with sleep, “That was beautiful by the way, what was it?”

Sherlock sat up, leaning against the headboard, “Oh. Just a song I heard a lot as a child.”

Greg joined him, drawing his still-covered knees up, “Really? Listen to a lot of French music as a child?”

“Well, since I was learning French as a child, _oui_.”

“Ooh, I’ll have to remember that,” Greg quipped, “I wish I could remember half the Spanish I learned in high school.”

Sherlock laid his head on Greg’s shoulder, “I’m guessing not much more than _Mi nombre es Greg_.”

“That...and _mantequilla de cacahuates_ for some reason”

Sherlock scoffed, “Out of all the possible Spanish words and phrases useful in today’s world, you chose to remember their word for ‘peanut butter’?”

Greg gently shrugged, “I suppose I just like the way it sounds.”

“Hmm...I suppose,” Sherlock interlocked their hands, “Are you ready for tomorrow?”

“Something special about tomorrow? I know it’s our last practice before the preseason but...”

Sherlock gave out a little yawn, “Press will be there. They’re curious to see how the team is doing.”

“You think they’d be content with all the interviews I did a few weeks ago.”

“Oh, but that was before the team practiced together. Now they want to see if you’ve murdered me yet.”

Greg lightly traced his fingers up Sherlock’s arm, “Right about now would be the perfect time, you definitely wouldn’t be expecting it.”

“I’m not sure I could even fault you for it if you did, it’s certainly what I’d do.”

“Y’know, that’s not really as reassuring as you think it is," He squeezed Sherlock's hand, "Would you like some...ummm...breakfast? I could fix us something."

"Greg, I know that you don't have any actual food in this house."

"Oh. Right. Well...would you like to grab breakfast somewhere with me?"

Sherlock chuckled, "That sounds lovely, really. But I'm afraid I'll have to pass."

"Oh."

"Don't be like that," He planted a kiss on Greg's cheek, "My insufferable brother scheduled a meeting for today."

"A meeting?"

"Some sort of sponsorship deal that I will undoubtedly turn down."

“Aww, what’s the matter, hate getting free stuff?”

Sherlock snorted dismissively, “I didn’t make the choice to play the one sport that would earn me endless ire from my fellow countrymen so that someone else could tell me what brand of sneakers to wear in public.”

“How did you end up playing football?”

“ _American_ football.”

“Don’t be an ass.”

Sherlock straightened up and sat cross-legged, shifting himself to face Greg, “My parents wanted both my brother and me to grow up...well, I guess you’d say ‘well-rounded’. My older brother Mycroft-”

“You’re joking. _Mycroft_? Is that his name?”

He raised an eyebrow, “You say that as if ‘Sherlock’ were any better.”

“I dunno, I kinda like the name Sherlock,” Greg gave his chin a tug and pressed a gentle kiss to his lips, “Sounds a bit like girl’s name though.”

“As I was saying, Mycroft played football - _actual_ football - as a goalie because well,” Sherlock stretched his arms wide with his palms out.

Greg giggled despite himself, “Sherlock! That’s really not nice!”

“It doesn’t have to be nice to be true. But I played rugby. I liked the strategy part of it, it’s not just brutality you know. And I found out that I was quite fast, faster than anyone my age as it happens. And I was quite content, for awhile. But then, by chance, I happened to watch an American football game and I was just, blown away by the absolute elegance of it. I’m not sure if you’ve seen a rugby match, but the passes are quite rushed and can be a bit sloppy, and I watched quarterbacks throw these beautiful, perfect spirals that were just wonderfully caught by men who, well, looked like me. I was just, enraptured by it. I viewed it as poetry or a symphony, albeit a brutal one,” Sherlock stared blankly for a moment before catching himself, “And then, well, I suppose you know the rest: I came to the States for university, worked my way up from third string, excelled, and now I’m in your bed.”

Greg sighed and smiled, “That’s not a bad trajectory.”

Sherlock leaned forward to kiss Greg on the nose, “And now I must beg your leave so that I may go and try my hardest not to be unbearably rude to some over-confident marketing executive.”

He moved gracefully in a way that Greg envied as he jumped off the bed and retrieved his coat from the living room. Before leaving, Sherlock ran back into the bedroom to kiss Greg one last time. And Greg thought to himself that it was shameful how such an absurd man could be so successful at taking his breath away.

Greg couldn’t help but grin when they pulled apart, “So I suppose this is _adieu_?”

Sherlock looked away and smiled a bit shyly, “No...no, not  _adieu_. Let’s say _au revoir_. Because we will see each other soon.”

With that, Sherlock swept out of the room and out the front door. Greg collapsed back on his bed, reaching over to bury his face in the pillow Sherlock had slept on before he realised what he was doing.

 

***

 

( _Theme music for SPORTSCENTER plays as the camera fades in to SARA WALSH standing in the center on the set_ )

SARA WALSH: One of the most interesting stories this offseason has been the moving and renaming of the St. Louis Rams. We are, of course, curious as to how the LA Silver Blazes are faring with a new quarterback, new star running back, and a handful of other traded players and rookies. Suzy Kolber was kind enough to head down to the Silver Blazes’ training camp to get an idea of how things are coming together and she’s coming to us live after one of their practices.

( _Scene changes to SUZY KOLBER standing on the sidelines of a football field with GREG LESTRADE standing next to her_ )

SUZY KOLBER: Thanks Sara. I’m here with former Bills and current Blazes quarterback Greg Lestrade who agreed to talk a bit with us. How are you, Greg?”

GREG LESTRADE: Oh I am absolutely fantastic, Suzy.

KOLBER: Good to hear it, how’s the team coming together? There’s a lot of new faces on this team, yourself included.

LESTRADE: Really well, actually. Considering how many fresh faces we have: John Watson, of course, who is playing fantastically, Phillip Anderson, who we’ve moved to guard, it’s been amazing watching him excel in practice, Sally Donovan...oh man, I can not tell you how excited I am to have her protecting me against some of the stronger defenses out there, and Molly Hooper, of course, who isn’t really a new face to me but definitely one for the team. There’s tons more as well, they’ve basically rebuilt the defense from the ground up and I'll have you know, those guys are tough as nails, if I may use a cliche.

KOLBER: Well it sounds like training camp has been pretty productive for you guys.

LESTRADE: Oh yeah, I can't remember the last time I was this excited ( _LESTRADE pauses as teammates start to jog off the field, SHERLOCK HOLMES leans over and whispers in LESTRADE’S ear. They both laugh heartily before HOLMES leaves the frame_ ). Sorry, since I was this excited about a team. All the components are ready and we’re absolutely going to take back the NFC West this season!

KOLBER: Well thanks Greg, I’m sure it’ll be an interesting season for you. Back to you Sara!

 

***

 

Greg huffed out a laugh out as he walked away from Suzy and into the locker rooms. It was going to take an actual act of God to prevent him from murdering Sherlock Holmes. The locker room was empty when he got there, save the insufferable ass who was, of course, standing by Greg’s locker in nothing but a pair of running shorts. And grinning like a cat that had devoured a whole family of canaries.

Greg stood with his hands on his hips, “You think you’re really funny, don’t you?”

Sherlock furrowed his brows, but continued smiling, “Oh, you didn’t like my message?”

“Sherlock! ‘I really want to suck your cock right now’? How am I supposed to keep a straight face while speaking on NATIONAL TELEVISION when you're saying THAT with that....voice of yours?”

"Shhhh, don't want the guys in the showers to hear you."

Greg shook his head, "You are an absolutely ridiculous man."

Sherlock stepped closer to him, "I meant it though."

"I'm sorry?"

"Do I need to tell you again? Because I will," He leaned in and whispered, " _Je veux sucer ta bite bandante_ ”

Greg was very ignorant when it came to French, but he had an idea, “Sherlock...” His face blushed red, “I uh...right now?”

Sherlock grinned, “Oh you, you’re so very cute. Would you like that? Right here? Where any of our teammates could walk in at any time and see us?” He traced his fingers lightly across Greg’s collarbone.

“I...I...I don’t think...”

“Shh...” Sherlock put his finger to Greg’s lips, then rolled his eyes and grasped his hand, “While I will log that away for later, may I suggest we make use of the supply closet just a few feet to our right?”

At this point Greg could only nod stupidly and allow himself to be led by Sherlock into the dark closet. As soon as Greg heard the click of the doorknob, Sherlock was on his knees in front of him. His eyes were still adjusting to the relative darkness, but he could just make out Sherlock’s impossibly light-coloured eyes looking up at him expectantly while he tugged at the waistband of Greg’s shorts. Greg gasped as cool air hit his already mostly-hard cock and groaned when Sherlock gave it a few experimental tugs.

“Hmm...you know I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to uncut cocks.”

Before Greg could reply, Sherlock twirled his tongue around the head of his cock then swallowed it all the way to his fist resting at the base. He started with a long, slow pull back to the head before setting into a steady rhythm. Apparently not content with the indulgent noises Greg was making, Sherlock grabbed one of his hands and placed it firmly in his mess of curls, using his other hand to tug on Greg’s thigh, clear hints he hoped Greg would pick up on.

Biting his lip, Greg gripped his fingers into Sherlock’s hair and starting thrusting his hips into his absolutely perfect mouth. There would be bruises on his thighs later, he knew, from where Sherlock currently had his hands splayed out to brace himself. He started panting, completely losing himself in how beautifully perverse the creature in front of him was. He suddenly hated how dark the closet was.

“God...Sherlock...I wish I could...see you right now.”

Sherlock moaned in appreciation and the sensation on Greg’s cock was enough to push him over the edge. He tried to pull Sherlock back, but he just batted his hand away and sunk impossibly deeper as Greg’s cock pulsated into his mouth. Once Greg was thoroughly spent, he groaned as he felt Sherlock slowly sliding his lips off his cock. He gingerly interlocked their fingers and pulled Sherlock up into a deep, penetrating kiss. Greg ran his tongue eagerly into and around Sherlock’s mouth, greedily tasting every bit of himself that still lingered. When he broke the kiss to take a few gasping breaths, he looked down then slowly ran his hand over the clear bulge in Sherlock’s shorts.

He met Sherlock’s gaze again and grinned, “Want to head to the showers and let me take care of that for you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple of notes:  
> The song Sherlock is singing in the beginning is _"Comment Te Dire Adieu"_ by Francoise Hardy. It's hearteningly beautiful and sad, as most French pop songs are and I really can't recommend it (or Francoise Hardy) enough if you haven't heard it. I'm not even sure if Sherlock speaking French is canon, but I've read so many fanfics that include it I basically consider it canon.  
>  The part Sherlock is singing is the second verse which goes:  
> Mon coeur de silex vite prend feu  
> Ton coeur de pyrex résiste au feu  
> Je suis bien perplexe je ne veux  
> Me résoudre aux adieux
> 
> And the translation:  
> My flint heart catches fast on fire  
> Your pyrex heart is fireproof  
> I am quite puzzled, I do not want  
> To resign myself to farewells
> 
> Also, on a football front, I'm reminded that some readers might not watch the NFL so the mention of the NFC West might be confusing, so I'll explain the divisions real quick:  
> The NFL is decided into two divisions, the NFC and the AFC, each containing 16 teams (the Super Bowl is when the best NFC team and the best AFC team play each other)  
> Within each division, there is a North, South, East, and West sub-division that each contain 4 teams. Being that the team the Silver Blazes are supposedly replacing, the St Louis Rams, are currently in the NFC West, I decided to keep the Blazes in that division
> 
> Oh and, if you're wondering, yes, "Je veux sucer ta bite bandante" means exactly what you think it does (If you think it means "I want to suck your hard cock" because that's what it means)


	8. Preseason

For Greg, the preseason was a bit of a blur. Because he was officially the starting quarterback, he really only played around 15% of the snaps of the game, just enough so that fans could see how well he could still throw. Donovan, being a rookie, and Anderson, still needing to prove his usefulness, played most of the games, so Greg ended up spending his time chatting with Molly on the sidelines.

He would occasionally glance further down the sidelines where Sherlock and John were always acting buddy-buddy with each other, something that still gave him a tinge of jealousy even though he knew it shouldn’t. For God's sake, he'd had the lanky bastard writhing in his bed nearly every night the past few week. There were even bruises on his thighs from that very morning.

Molly tilted her head, “Greg? Were you even listening?”

He switched his attention quickly, “Umm...yeah, yeah, of course.”

She turned to look behind her, “Oh...I see...”

“Huh?” Greg chuckled nervously, despite himself, “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Really?” She cocked an eyebrow at him, “You’re so terrible at keeping secrets, Greg.”

“It’s not that obvious, is it?”

“Maybe not to everyone, but you’re forgetting that I’ve known you since you were with Christian. At the very least, I saw the way you looked at him.”

“Now Molly - “

She placed a hand on his arm, “And you’re really trying to hide it, but you’re looking at Sherlock the same way.”

He scrunched his nose, “Am I? Really?”

“You’re going to ruin your eyesight if you keep surreptitiously checking out his ass,” They both laughed for a moment before Molly playfully elbowed him, “So I guess it’s all fairly new then?”

“What’s fairly new?” A sweaty Sally Donovan asked once she’d made it to the sideline.

Greg rolled his eyes, “Nothing to worry about Sally. I’d rather you focused making sure your snaps are clean.”

She sneered, “My snaps are clean!” At that moment, Sherlock decided to turn and give Greg a wink, a gesture that didn’t go unnoticed, “Oh...Oh! Greg! Please tell me that wasn’t what I think it was.”

“Not really your business either way. Perhaps you should go over some plays with Coach Stamford.”

Sally glared at him and opened her mouth a few times, clearly trying to think of a way to phrase her anger. Finally, she jerked her head in annoyance and stepped over to where Mike was standing with an open binder. Greg crossed his arms and shook his head; responses like that had been the exact reason he had tried to keep things under wraps for the time being.

Molly gave him a half-smile, “Can’t blame her you know, you’ve heard what people say about him.”

“That he’s an insufferable, know-it-all ass?”

“Among other things.”

Greg sighed, “I’m aware. And they’re not wrong. But there’s more to him than that.”

“Well,” Molly gnawed on her bottom lip, “Just know that I was there for you when, well you know. And I’m not eager to see you like that again.”

“I appreciate that,” Greg gave her his biggest smile, “But I’m not even sure how serious this is.”

Greg was sure though, at this point, that Sherlock was deliberately standing in a way that gave him an absolute perfect view of his ass.

***

Once the game was over - Greg wasn’t even sure if they’d won or not - Sally grabbed him by the arm before he could leave the field and led him over to a deserted area of the sideline. She looked flustered and it was clear that she was still trying to choose her words carefully.

She grunted in frustration before finally locking eyes with Greg, “Look, I know it’s not my business,” Greg made a face, “No, really. I know it’s not. But. I don’t live in a bubble you know, and I’ve followed football for a long time. It’s my passion just as much as it’s yours.”

“Sally...”

“Just, this won’t take long, okay? I’ve looked up to you for a long time now. Everyone I know that’s ever met you has only had positive things to say; players, coaches, fans, reporters, you name it. And it’s only been a little over a month now, but I see why. You’re a great leader and a great man, Greg.”

“That’s very kind of you to say, but -”

“But _him_? Greg, everything I’ve ever heard suggests him being an abusive dick who gets off on thinking he’s smarter than the rest of us. And I haven’t been surprised by him yet, he argues with Mike, he taunts his defense during practice when he’s running routes, for fuck’s sake Greg, he made Dimmock cry just last week.”

“I know he can be...difficult, but he’s not all rough edges.”

“Look, I...I won’t say anything else about it because it really, really isn’t any of my business - unless it starts to affect the team. Just know that I like you and I don’t trust him. For all you know, he’s probably trying to make sure he stays on your good side so he can guarantee more plays for himself. He is a bit of a show-off.”

Greg wasn’t quite sure how to respond to that, not that he got a chance to though, as Sally only hesitated for a second before walking away. He wasn’t sure what he hated more: that Sally had planted such an idea in his head, or that he felt incredibly foolish for not thinking of it himself. Surely it wasn’t possible; he desperately wanted to believe that the side of Sherlock he’d seen had been more authentic than what other people saw, but he just didn’t know how he could be sure.

***

That evening, Sherlock had shown up at his door with a bag of street tacos and a six-pack of Corona. And Greg had discovered the innate joy he found in kissing salsa off of the side of Sherlock’s mouth. After that, it hadn’t taken long before everything else had been abandoned in favor of moving to the bedroom.  

Greg had to admit, this was the way he liked Sherlock most: pale and naked and vulnerable and close to whimpering. Part of it was watching his various muscles flex and relax as he reacted to Greg’s hands and cock and mouth. The other part was how different this Sherlock seemed to the cocky bastard everyone else saw. Yes -  Greg decided as he focused his attentions on running his tongue along the ridges of Sherlock’s abdomen - this was real and whole and authentic. This rolling and canting of the hips. The murmured words that barely escaped his lips. The release that hit the back of Greg’s throat when Sherlock cried out with his hands firmly gripped in Greg’s hair. No one could fake this.

Still shaking and gasping, Sherlock had burrowed himself on Greg’s chest and hopelessly intertwined their legs. Greg stroked his back in what he hoped was a calming gesture and kissed him gently against his curls. He’d almost drifted to sleep when he heard Sherlock mumble incoherently into his collarbone.

Greg tilted his head, “Sorry hon, what was that?”

Sherlock groaned and propped himself on his elbows, “No pet names, please, Lestrade. And I was just...curious as to why Sally Donovan took you aside earlier. She seemed upset.”

Greg hesitated, he didn’t want to tell Sherlock the truth, but since he knew she was wrong... “She just warned me to be careful.”

Sherlock scoffed, “I hardly think you have anything to worry about. Between the offensive line and, well, the way you play -”

“She didn’t mean it in regards to football.”

He rested his chin on Greg’s chest and looked up at him, “Oh...then...”

“Yeah,” Greg ran his hand through the mussed-up curls.

“Why should this be any of her concern?”

“It’s...just,” Greg didn’t see any issue with explaining everything to him, “She’s just concerned that you might...She just thought you were trying to take advantage. You know, trying to get on my good side and guarantee yourself a lot of playtime.”

Before Greg could even react, Sherlock had leapt off the bed and started getting dressed, “Is that what you think, Greg? Is that why you think I’m here?”

Greg moved to sit on the edge of the bed, “Stop Sherlock, c’mon...”

He paused, hunched over while pulling his jeans on, “Fucking hell, you do, don’t you?”

“No, no of course not.”

“But you don’t completely doubt it either, do you?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Sherlock...”

He curled his hands into fists, “No, Lestrade. Fuck IT. Fuck THIS. And fuck you. Fuck right the fuck off.”

Greg hurriedly tugged on a pair of boxers and tried to follow Sherlock but he was well out the door before Greg could stop him. Still, he ran out the door to try and prevent him from driving away, but was only able to watch helplessly as Sherlock’s car peeled out of sight. Frustrated, he swore through gritted teeth and stomped back into the house, slamming the door a little louder than usual.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the angst! Things will get better though, no worries!
> 
> Also, feel free to follow me [on tumblr](http://relax-itsjustbolognese.tumblr.com/) for updates on this story and any other ones I get inclined to write


	9. Week 1 - Washington Redskins

Greg pulled his helmet on and jumped up and down a few times. At any moment, the announcer would say the team’s name and everyone would get their first look at the LA Silver Blazes. Sure, it’d be better next week when they were actually running out onto their own field rather than FedEx Field in Washington, but Greg had always enjoyed the excitement that came with the first real week of football.

Practice that week had been nearly flawless, giving Greg hope that this season might just be the one he’d been waiting for. The only downside had been the persistent cold-shoulder he’d gotten from Sherlock, although Greg had to admit that the whole situation had been a tad bittersweet. Sherlock had acted like the model player; he’d listened, he’d worked with his teammates, he hadn’t argued with anyone - not even Anderson, but he always left immediately after practice. He’d barely spoken a word to anyone except John and, occasionally, Coach Hudson.

And Greg hated it. It bruised him every huddle when Sherlock would resolutely stare at the grass rather than look Greg in the eye. No matter which plays Greg called, Sherlock refused to comment or assert himself. So now Greg might have had a serviceable, compliant wide receiver, but he was hating every moment of it.

Midweek, he’d even invited John out for drinks at a nearby bar. He would never admit his true intentions behind it, instead disguising it as a simply an excuse for two older players to hang out. And the evening had started out well, it hadn’t even been that annoying when a couple of college kids had asked for pictures and autographs with them. John had chatted them up amiably, even asked them how their studies were going. And what should have just simply showed Greg what a nice guy John was, instead made him miss - in a strange way - the prickly, stand-offish nature he would have expected from Sherlock in the same situation.

Later in the night, after a few minutes of silence on Greg’s end, John finally nudged his shoulder and asked him, “So, you’re thinking about him, aren’t you?”

Greg smiled and sipped his beer, “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’m not stupid, Greg, I know a man with ulterior motives when I see one.”

“Oh c’mon, I can’t just enjoy a drink with a fellow seasoned veteran such as myself?”

“I’m sure that was part of it,” John shook his head, “There's so many young kids on the team that I shudder every time I see a grey hair in the mirror.”

“You’re telling me. I’m thirty- _fucking_ -three and I feel like an old man out there.”

“You think they look up to us?”

“I fucking hope so. I spent my entire rookie season hovering in the shadow of Drew Bledsoe, trying desperately to glean anything I could from him.”

John chuckled, “Yeah, I did the same thing with Mike Anderson. I chose the right time, too, his 2005 season was so amazing, you remember?”

Greg winced, “I’d rather not be reminded of the 2005 season, if that’s alright. Or the 2006 season. Or 2007 for that matter.”

“Ah, yeah, sorry man,” John paused, “You really shouldn’t let it get to you though. It’s tough to get your legs in a team like that. Everyone could see how talented you were, and how horribly it was being wasted.”

“Most frustrating experience of my life.”

“Well, hopefully this’ll be a turnaround season for both of us.”

“Sherlock seems to think so...”

John grinned, “And there he is. What is going on there anyway?”

Greg shook his head, “I don’t even know. It was fine y’know, the whole preseason had been great. Then...”

“Hmm? Then what?”

“I don’t really know. He asked what Sally said to me after that last game and I told him. Then he got mad and ran off. Hasn’t acknowledged me much since. Won’t even give me a chance to find out what’s wrong.”

“Well, what _did_ Sally say?”

“She just uh...well you know what people say about him. She figured it out about, well, us, and she was just worried that he might be, I don’t know, taking advantage.”

John scoffed, “Oh my gosh, and you told him that?”

“Was I supposed to lie to him?”

“God no, just. Just listen, Greg, alright? I don’t admit to being an expert on Sherlock Holmes, for god’s sake I’ve only known him for a little over a month, but I’ve known people like him. He seems all bristly and coarse, but it’s only because he’s so fragile underneath. I mean, can you imagine him in middle school? Or...whatever middle school is called in England.”

“Is it secondary school?”

“Not exactly the point, Greg. Anyways. I’m sure you noticed him and I chatting -”

“A lot.”

“Well, yeah. But he mostly just talked about you. He likes you. A lot. And he mentioned more than once that he was terrified he’d screw it up somehow. He’s still a bit young, Greg.”

“Twenty-six.”

“Young compared to us. He’s still in the mindset of protecting his emotions at all costs. He could give two shits what any other member of the offensive line thinks of his attitude, but I’m sure it shattered him that you would think anything negative about him. That you could even entertain any negative thought about him.”

“Alright, alright. I get your point,” Greg took a long sip of his beer and exhaled slowly, “So how do I fix it?”

“Gonna have to figure that one out on your own, buddy. I’m a thirty-one years old, divorced, and apparently unable to attract the attention of anyone old enough to remember that there was a cartoon version of Transformers. I think I’ve exhausted my supply of relationship advice.”

“Well it was certainly appreciated, for what it’s worth.”

“Just know that I reserve the right to call you in should I ever experience a similar crisis. Or if I’m just bored.”

Greg laughed and finished his pint before gesturing to the bartender to order a couple more. This was going to painful; he was absolutely shit at apologies.

 

***

 

It was the fourth quarter and the game had gone surprisingly well. Dimmock had returned a punt for a touchdown, Hopkins had a 20-yard catch and nearly made it to the endzone, and the announcers were falling all over themselves to say flattering things about how well John was playing. Sherlock had, of course, succeeded in making plays when necessary, but wasn’t his usual, flashy self; instead of trying to run the ball for extra yardage after a catch, he kept playing it safe by running out of bounds. He’d even taken a knee for a touchback during the only punt return he caught. Still, through all their efforts the team had managed a nice three-score lead with just a few minutes remaining in the quarter.

Their last punt return had put them on their own 30-yard line, so theoretically they could just do a bunch of short runs and wind the clock down. Or, Greg realised, there was a way that he could apologise to Sherlock. He surely wasn’t the only one that needed to apologise, but he needed Sherlock to know that he could trust him, just like Greg knew he could trust Sherlock. And right now, with the relaxation of knowing he could pretty much run any play he wanted, Greg was willing to show his devotion.

The setting had to be perfect though, so he waited until they were on their 3rd down on their own 38-yard line

He called up a huddle, “Alright, I think we’re free to have a little fun. So let’s show this crowd what we’re made of, ay? Let’s do Foxtrot Romeo.”

Sherlock looked up at him - for the first time in almost a week - with wide, confused eyes, but didn’t say a word.

Greg continued, “But I want them to think it’s a Bubble, so you three,” He pointed at Paul, Bill, and Stanley, ”line up on the weak-side. That’ll give Sherlock time to run deep, and Stanley, you break out as soon as you can just in case Sherlock’s covered. Got it guys?”

They clapped loudly and walked to the line of scrimmage, where the Redskins defense was idling around waiting for them. Greg smiled and took a moment, after he was in place behind Sally, to appreciate just how long and lean Sherlock looked once he was in stance. Bouncing softly on the balls of his feet and leaning forward just enough to intimidate the linebacker across from him.

With the play clock was winding down, Greg quickly shifted his attention and barked out his orders, “ON THREE WE DANCE WITH ROMANCE WITH THE PROMISE OF BATHTIME, ONE, TWO...”

He stepped back as the ball was forcefully snapped in his direction, catching it effortlessly. Donovan and Anderson were doing their job well, keeping any defensive tackles away from him, giving Sherlock time to get into the deep field. To his right, most of the rest of the defensive line was being blocked by Watson and the running backs, creating a perfect pocket that he could move around in. After taking a cursory glance around him just to make sure, he finally checked downfield to see that Sherlock had broken away cleanly from the safety trying to block him and was just fifteen yards away from the endzone.

 _That bastard_ , he chuckled to himself as he brought his arm back and threw the football in a perfect arc towards Sherlock, who paused for a moment to catch it against his chest before swerving to escape a cornerback and the other safety, then beautifully run into the endzone just as the clock ran out. Greg pumped his fist into the air as his offensive line crowded around him. He couldn’t help but smile as he whipped his helmet off and jogged off the field where he was gently nudged over to the waiting reporters.

Pam Oliver grabbed his attention first, “Greg Lestrade! An awfully dramatic end for just the first week, is this what we can expect from the Silver Blazes this season?”

He grinned and alternated between facing her and the camera, “Of course, we can't wait to show off for our new home crowd next week! I think this whole game showed you what to expect from us this season. I hope we’ve managed to squash any doubts that we’re not ready to take back our division.”

“Is there anything you still think needs work?”

“We can always work more on perfecting our running game and some of our rookies still need work, but I think we’re only going to get better as the season progresses. But our defense did a fantastic job of holding the Redskins back. And well, you saw the offense.”

“Keep playing like you did today and this'll be a great season for you! Thanks for your time, it’s always good to see you, Greg!”

“You as well, Pam.”

Greg smiled again and brushed past her, but ran into John before he could make it to the locker rooms. John walked beside him as they re-entered the tunnel and leaned in close once they were out of sight of the cameras.

“Flag route, eh? You must have it bad.” John whispered out of the side of his mouth.

Greg turned his head towards him, “You think it was that obvious to everyone else?”

“Definitely obvious to the one that mattered.”

“Think you can do me a favour, John?”

“It, of course, depends on the favour.”

“I’m going to hang back, mind telling me which shower Sherlock goes into?”

John smiled and laughed, in an attempt to make their conversation seem nonchalant to onlookers, “Oh, you two going to make that a habit?”

Greg mimicked his smile, “I need to give him a proper apology.”

“So very unsanitary.”

“You’d be delighted to help, then?”

“You owe me so much.”

“Of course I will.”

"Then you can count on me."

John jogged on ahead while Greg slowed his pace. He could distinctly see Sherlock's curly hair far ahead of him and wanted to give him enough of a head-start. Once he was in the locker rooms, Greg took his time undressing, even chatting with a few of his teammates about the game. He had just wrapped a towel around his waist by the time John brushed past him and discreetly whispered that Sherlock was in the stall on the end.

The shower room itself was incredibly loud between the noise of so much running water and the chatter between players. Greg was thankful for this as he quickly moved to the last stall and removed his towel before pulling the curtain open and stepping inside. Sherlock spun around, flicking water against Greg’s chest.

“Les-”

Greg put his finger to his lips and tugged them away from the spray of the water, “Shhh...look,” He leaned close to whisper in Sherlock’s ear, “I know that I need to apologise. And I’ll leave right now if you want me to. I just..” He began running his hands up and down Sherlock’s chest, “I miss you, and I...think you’re fantastic and I should hav-”

He was cut off by Sherlock tilting his head and capturing his mouth. In an instant, he had Sherlock pinned against the shower wall and his fingers firmly gripping his hips. The kiss was open and messy, the result of a week of pent-up emotions. Sherlock groaned as Greg tugged and sucked on his bottom lip and Greg stepped back.

“Shhh....careful. Don’t want the other guys to hear us.”

Sherlock wrapped his arms around Greg and pulled him back against him, inadvertently running their cocks along each other in the process, “I promise you,” He whispered deeply, “That is the least of my concerns.”

Greg shuddered as Sherlock bit along his shoulder muscles - surely leaving marks - before going back and placing wet kisses over each one. He could feel Sherlock’s cock pressed against him as he frustratingly canted his hips, unable to get enough friction. It would occasionally brush up against his own and send sparks that settled deep in his belly. Sherlock licked a broad strip up his neck and over his chin, forcing him to bite his lip to avoid crying out, feeling so close even though they’d barely even started.

With his hands still gripping Sherlock’s hips, Greg pulled his own back - making sure to snatch Sherlock’s mouth in his in order to catch any of his whimpers. He drew his lips millimeters away from Sherlock’s as he angled then pressed the heads of their cocks together and ran Sherlock’s foreskin over both of them - mostly because he wanted to hear the gasp that would undoubtedly escape from Sherlock’s mouth.

Sherlock dug his fingers into Greg’s shoulders and thrust his hips forward in rhythm with Greg’s hand working the length of both their cocks. Greg rested their foreheads together and found that his hips started moving as well as he lost himself in the exquisite feeling of Sherlock’s foreskin rubbing over his cock. He could tell that Sherlock was desperately trying to be quiet, gritting his teeth and only letting out tiny gasps. Finally, he buried his face in Greg’s shoulder and let out a muffled cry as he came. The sensation, to Greg, was so overwhelming that his eyes almost rolled to the back of his head. He swallowed down a scream, letting out only a deep grunt, as he quickly followed suit. Once he felt sturdy on his feet again, he took Sherlock into his arms and stroked his hand through his hair and down his back.

“Lestrade,” Sherlock continued to whisper, although his voice was a bit hoarser than it had been, “That was quite an apology.”

Greg kissed his neck, “Does that mean you accept it?”

Sherlock moaned appreciatively, “This time.” And Greg was sure that he could feel him smirking.

 

 

~Final Score : 34-10

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh....so many notes! There's so many things I want to comment on:
> 
> First off, Greg and John's choices for mentors are somewhat meaningful: in 2002, when Greg would have been in his rookie season, Drew Bledsoe had just been traded to the Buffalo Bills after playing for the New England Patriots for almost 10 seasons. The Bills offense went from scoring the fifth fewest points to the sixth highest in the AFC. And in 2005, what would have been John's rookie year with the Denver Broncos (yeah, I kinda like him with the Broncos, don't know why), Mike Anderson was coming off an injury-prone 2004 season and had his best season yet, rushing for over 1,000 yards for the second time in his career. 
> 
> (Also, as a sidenote to these endnotes, Drew Bledsoe was traded again after the 2004 season to the Cowboys, so the 2005 season would have been Greg's first as the starting quarterback)
> 
> In regards to play-calling: each team has different code-names for their plays (that way the defense won't overhear them calling out a Post route or Screen pass and adjust accordingly), usually it's colors + numbers (i.e, Aaron Rodgers calling out "BLUE 42") or states (a la Peyton Manning). For some reason, I really like the idea of Greg utilising the phonetic alphabet for plays (Foxtrot for Flag routes, Delta for a Draw play, etc) and players involved in the play (Romeo for [wide] receivers, Bravo for [running] backs, etc) and I also think Greg would have my sort of corny sense of humor and want to make riddle out of the name of the play when he's calling it. It's the most fun you can have as a quarterback.
> 
> Also, as a reminder, Flag routes are deep plays that would require a strong arm from a QB, the receiver is usually 20-30 yards downfield from the line of scrimmage.


	10. Week 2 - Detroit Lions

Greg snorted and rolled over, disappointed to find the other side of the bed empty. He groaned and cautiously stretched out muscles that were still sore from the game. One deep groan escaped when he heard a loud pop from his back.

Something was different about his house, something despite the absence of the warn body that had been next to him a few hours ago. He sniffed the air as he gingerly stepped out of bed - it was definitely the smell. His house never smelled this good.

When he'd neared the kitchen, the answer became apparent: standing in front of the stove, dressed in only an undershirt and running shorts and swaying to a symphony Greg didn't recognise, was Sherlock busy frying up something. Greg was delighted to realise that it smelled deliciously like bacon.

He walked up and wrapped his arms around Sherlock, "Cooking breakfast, eh? Smells amazing." Greg gently rested his chin on Sherlock's shoulder

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow, "I have trouble sleeping after a game - endorphins and all that - so I decided to remedy the barren food situation in your house," He paused to hum along to the music playing, "And I’m aware that you weren’t the only one who needed to apologise, so I...decided to make you some breakfast.”

Greg gave him a kiss on the back of the neck, then moved to lean against the counter, “That’s awfully nice of you, you really didn’t have to, though. But thank you.”

“You’re welcome, coffee’s on if you’d like some. Is there a reason that you don’t own a kettle?”

“I’m sorry? Why would I own a kettle?”

“To make boiling water? For tea?”

“Oh...well, I guess I’ve just never needed one. Sometimes during the summer, I’ll do a cleanse and drink green tea, but I usually just heat the water up in the microwave.”

Sherlock cringed and nearly dropped the spatula he was holding, “That. Simply won’t do. We’ll need to be getting you a kettle. I can’t stay somewhere that I can’t make tea,” He cocked his head at Greg, “Proper tea.”

Greg smiled but decided not to broach the topic further, “So, what are you making for us?”

Sherlock relaxed again, “Eggs in a basket. Not too terribly healthy, but one of my favorite breakfasts. My mum used to make them for me when I was young. Seemed like a safe choice.”

“And bacon, I see?”

“You seem the type to like bacon at breakfast.”

“That’s a very accurate observation, actually. Good on you. Could I fix you a cup of coffee?”

“Umm...sure. Just a few sugars please. I’m almost finished up here. You can wait at the table if you’d like.”

Greg poured the coffees, keeping his black and sat down at the table. He was busy checking emails when Sherlock brought the plates over with some maple syrup. Yes, this was very much not a healthy breakfast, but looked substantially better than the protein shakes he’d been making for himself since Christian had moved out over a year ago. In fact - he realised as he was cutting into the runny yolks -  he couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten eggs that he hadn’t scrambled and burnt whilst being hungover. This though, this was much better.

They ate in relative silence, Greg only giving Sherlock an enthusiastic smile to indicate how much he was enjoying the breakfast. And Greg didn’t want to admit it at the time, but it was charmingly domestic in a way that he hadn’t realise he missed. Even the coffee somehow tasted better than usual.

Greg leaned back, fully relaxed, "I have to say that I accept your apology. And, if this is your way of apologising, I hope you have plenty reason to in the future."

Sherlock gave him a small smile, "Or, I could just cook for you without being a prat first."

"That would actually be preferable," Greg returned his smile, "That was a hell of a catch last night, by the way."

"It was a hell of a throw. Perfect, actually."

"Yes, but, I can throw the ball all day. The importance lies in catching it."

"Throw like that all season, I'll catch for you all season. Obvious."

"I think I'd like you to catch for me for quite awhile..."

Sherlock crinkled his nose, "Was that your excuse for an innuendo?"

Greg giggled as he stood up, "I'm afraid I can't help myself sometimes. More coffee? I'll take care of the washing up."

Sherlock leaned against the counter while Greg filled the sink halfway with soapy water. And while Greg thoroughly scrubbed the plates and pans, Sherlock tried to point out all the aspects of the team that still needed work. Greg wiped his arm across his brow and sighed.

"Sherlock," He interjected, "It's Monday, man. Let's go a couple of days without football, alright?"

When Sherlock protested and put on a pouty expression, Greg swiftly moved to stand in front of him, then positioned his hands on the counter on either side of Sherlock. Without a word, he leaned forward and nuzzled against Sherlock's neck before pressing soft kisses up his jawline and behind his ear.

He inhaled deeply and whispered against his skin, "This music is beautiful by the way, what is it?"

Sherlock's arms had moved up to cling to Greg's back, "Umm... Vivaldi. L'Estro Armonico. Concerto number...seven."

"Mmm.... I like it."

Greg made a trail of biting kisses along his neck before finally lifting up and claiming his mouth. He immediately ran his tongue along Sherlock's bottom lip before thrusting it in and kissing him deeply. Sherlock eagerly returned the kiss, pushing forward and gripping Greg's back tighter. With a grunt, Greg ran his hands under Sherlock’s thighs, lifted him up, and set him on the counter.

Sherlock instinctively wrapped his legs around him and began rocking against him, causing their clothed cocks to rub against each other. Greg gasped at the intermittent contact and made quick work of his own boxer briefs before tugging down the front of Sherlock’s shorts. Once both cocks were freed, Greg shifted to wrap his hands around them, only to have Sherlock slap his hand away and wrap his own, larger hand around them instead.

Sherlock's grip was perfect, pulling with just the right amount of pressure and twisting a bit near the juxtaposed heads; Greg could do little more than tighten his fingers around Sherlock's arse and pull him upwards in rhythm with his own stuttering hips. The kiss became little more than feverish panting but Greg was hesitant to move away, needing the brush of contact between their lips.

Greg could feel himself getting close, "Come for me," He whispered into Sherlock's mouth, "C'mon, I wanna taste the sounds you make."

The pull of Sherlock's fist became more erratic as his gasps grew increasingly more frantic, culminating in a strangled cry that seemed to shoot up from his belly. One of Greg's hands flew up and grasped his back to cradle him against him. Sherlock started pressing nibbling bites on the side of his neck and he felt himself going over the edge, a shuddering wave crashing over him until his grip finally loosened.

Greg stepped back and ruffled his hand through his hair, "Well, that was...quite nice."

Sherlock exhaled and slowly slid off the counter, "I suppose it was a welcome distraction, assuming that was your motive."

"I think I like distracting you."

"Well, you're welcome to not-discuss football with me anytime you like, if that's how you plan on doing it."

 

***

 

The game was tied, not a situation Greg enjoyed finding himself in. The Lions were a fairly even match for them, but Greg could sense them tiring out; after an unfortunate Lions lead going into the second half, they'd been able to catch up because the defense was having difficulty keeping themselves together. If that trend continued, there'd be plenty of time left in the quarter for them to take the game back, as long as they could get possession back quickly.

Right now though, the Lions were doing their best to run the clock out, running short plays and refusing to use their timeouts. By the time the two-minute warning hit, their offense was resting peacefully on the Blazes' 45 yard line and looked ready to win the game. Greg bit his lip and shook his head, there was a slim chance of them coming back at this point. This wasn’t how he wanted their first home game to go.

Then, the most wonderful thing happened: the Lions offensive line lined up and snapped the ball, only for it to slip through Matt Stafford's fingers. Greg froze as he watched multiple players scramble for it until one of their own defensive backs - he was pretty sure it was Woodson - finally jumped on top of it. Sally, the nearest player to Greg, grabbed him and started jumping up and down in excitement.

Greg couldn't help but smile a giant, toothy grin as he pulled his helmet on. One minute and twenty-seven seconds to go. He couldn't have asked for anything better. As he brought the huddle in, he went over his choices: best not to go into dramatics two weeks in a row, at best all they needed was twenty-five yards for Molly to kick a clean field goal.

He took a look at the weary defense and called a quick slant pass to Watson that resulted in an easy first down - although Greg noted that John absolutely could have gone further. They'd have to keep working on that. After a draw play by Wiggins and a short run by Greg himself, only 25 seconds remained in the game. Grinning again, Greg jogged off the field and gave Molly a sneaky low-five as she and Gregson made their way to their positions.

It seemed like everyone was holding their breath, but the kick arced perfectly, sailing straight down the middle of the goalposts. The home crowd swelled up and shouted louder than they had the entire game. Greg could feel pats on the back coming from any number of teammates behind him, but his focus was on #21 walking slowly towards the sidelines. He knew there were numerous cameras already focused on him, but he couldn’t take his eyes off Sherlock - who was currently removing his helmet and shaking his hair out like a goddamn shampoo commercial. That was almost too much and caused Greg to furiously bite his lip in an attempt to keep himself in line; still, he couldn’t resist swatting the bastard right on the ass just as he walked by.

When Sherlock turned his head, Greg gave him a wink that probably seemed equally as innocent to any bystander, but was in reality a promise of more to come later. Good game, indeed.

 

~Final Score : 17-14


	11. Week 3 - Oakland Raiders

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a little more fluffy and football-centric than other ones have been, so I would understand if you wanted to skip it. I promise the next chapter gets very explicit very quickly.

Papers covered with a myriad of combinations of X's and O's were strewn all over Sherlock's kitchen table. Greg set a cup of tea down in front of him and moved to stand behind him. The younger man was intensely focused on the current play in his hands, barely responding when Greg started gently massaging his shoulders.

Greg kissed the top of his head, "C'mon now, you need to relax a bit."

Sherlock huffed in annoyance, "A chance fumble is the only reason we beat the Lions. We can't count on that kind of luck in every game. We clearly still have work to do."

“It’s late and you’ve been staring at those for _hours_. You need to take a break.”

“And you _need_ to work on your Bootleg.” Sherlock waved the play at Greg for emphasis.

Greg looked aghast, “My bootleg is executed just fine, thank you very much!”

“You hesitate too much. You could easily get 5-10 extra yards if you didn’t take such a dramatic pause before running with the ball.”

“Well I can’t work on it right now, can I? Your apartment is quite large but I doubt there’s room for an offensive line to be milling around.”

Sherlock put his face in his hands, “You’re being deliberately obtuse.”

Greg knelt down and took Sherlock’s chin in his hand, “I understand, alright? You want this season to be perfect. So do I. Why don’t we walk away from the plays for a bit, then we can come back to them with fresh eyes. If you’re good, I’ll even let you make a spreadsheet for practice tomorrow.”

“Mmm...I do enjoy a good spreadsheet.”

“C’mon then, we can relax, watch a movie, I’ll massage your hair, and you can turn your brain off for bit.”

He rolled his eyes, “It’s so cute that you think I can just turn my brain off. It must be so fun for the rest of you, to just stop thinking.”

Greg tugged on his hand until he finally stood up and followed him to the couch. He continued to protest as Greg picked out a movie and gently positioned Sherlock in his lap. He protested less when Greg started running his fingers through his tangle of curls. And Greg was pleased to discover that halfway through the movie, Sherlock was lightly snoring.

 

***

 

In all his years of playing, Greg had never encountered a home crowd that was this vicious. It wasn’t just that they were loud, they seemed downright _hateful_. He was honestly concerned about walking to his car at the end of the game if they ended up winning this one.

And right now their chances of winning looked very good; the Raiders offense hadn’t been able to get any sort of rhythm going during the entire first half. Even now, after they’d received the second-half kickoff, their running game was stuttering and Terrelle Pryor was having difficulty with accuracy. Greg was more than pleased to see a wobbly pass sail right over Denarius Moore’s head. He was less than pleased with the comments coming from fans behind him; he tried to ignore them and focus instead on going over the current gameplan with Mike.

Sherlock interrupted them, “Could I make a suggestion?”

Mike gave him a wry smile, “Sure, Sherlock. Got any ideas?”

“Look, Mike, I’ve been dealing with the shit fans on this ruffian excuse for a team for five years now. And you’ve been doing it...even longer. In fact, I’m pretty sure one of them just called you a ‘pudgy dough man’.”

Mike rolled his eyes, “What’s your point, Sherlock?”

“My point is,” He sneered, “They’re verbally abusive little hate-mongers, why not give them something to really be mad about?”

“Like what?” Greg asked, shrugging his shoulders.

“Possibly an End-Around? Don’t see much of them anymore. We could do a Reverse Play. Or maybe even a few Play-Action passes? Anything that'll rile up and confuse this defense.”

Greg couldn’t help but snicker, “I notice these plays all involve you, wanting to show off a bit, eh?”

“I’m a show-off, it’s what we do,” He paused, “Alright, we could play around with the Read Option, too. Everyone’s crazy about it these days and we’ve barely used it.”

Mike shook his head, “No, John isn’t ready for the Read Option.”

“You’re right, I wouldn’t trust Dimmock with that sort of responsibility.”

“Now Sherlock, don’t go putting-”

Greg interrupted, “We can consider it, okay? You think Hopkins could handle the blocking required for Play-Action?”

Mike shrugged, “I could probably move him to the strong-side, that way Angelo’ll be doing most of the blocking for him.”

Sherlock bristled, “But that would give me Anderson.”

“Very astute of you, Sherlock.” Mike chuckled, “We can try it once this way and if it’s a problem, you two can just switch back, alright?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and walked off, pulling his helmet on as he did so. Greg hoped that it wasn’t too obvious to bystanders that his eyes were absolutely fixated on Sherlock’s swaying backside, but from the look on Mike’s face, he wasn’t as covert as he thought.

It was a pretty good idea though, running a Play-Action, the defense didn’t know to expect it. Greg wasn’t exactly known for executing anything but straight-forward plays; maybe the occasional Quarterback Sneak, but he had always been a proponent of a no-nonsense way of playing. So when he pretended to hand the ball off to Dimmock, the defense acted accordingly, taking two full seconds to realise that Greg still had the ball.

By then, Hopkins had completely broken free - thanks to the combined efforts of Watson and Angelo blocking for him - while Sherlock was still struggling at the line of scrimmage, unable to escape the defenders. Greg frowned, he wasn’t supposed to show favoritism but damnit, this play had been Sherlock’s idea. He shook his head and threw a perfect spiral to the patiently waiting Dimmock. There was a small bit of him that pitied whatever tirade Anderson was no doubt going to receive once the game was over.

The third and fourth quarter followed much the same vein as the prior two, although a frankly fantastic touchdown run by Darren McFadden brought the game within a two-score difference. Finally, on what would possibly be their last play of the game, Greg decided that it might be interesting, after all, to “play around” with the Read Option. If nothing else, the defense would hardly expect him to leave the pocket, especially when they were still thirty yards away from the goal line.

So once the ball was snapped, John lined up in the fullback’s position and stayed close to Greg as the defense advanced. Once it was clear that the defensive end was expecting John, rather than Greg, to take the ball, Greg tucked it into his sternum and made a rush to get past the mass of defensive linemen. Donovan shoved a particularly nasty-looking middle linebacker out of the way and Greg found himself in an open backfield.

 _Fuck_. He couldn’t remember the last time this had happened, maybe a college game? Definitely over a decade ago. He narrowly side-stepped the strong safety, ducking under the defensive player’s extended arms, and sprinted the rest of the way to the endzone. The crowd immediately erupted with more boos than he’d ever heard, but he honestly couldn’t care. He dropped to his knees and savored the moment, wondering why he didn’t do this more often.

The last four minutes of the game were a bit of a blur. He was vaguely aware of the Raiders scoring again, but their attempt at an onside kick was a bust, so instead both teams took a knee with roughly 25 seconds remaining. It took Greg a moment for his situation to completely register. He had certainly been 3-0 before, but this time it somehow felt more real; the beginning of something fantastic rather than a build-up to let-down.

He made sure to shake hands with both Pryor and McFadden, giving the latter a bear-hug and congratulating him on his amazing touchdown. Flashbulbs were going off all around him as the angry fans were exiting the arena and he eagerly stopped to do a couple of interviews before stepping into the locker room. He showered and changed quickly, enjoying the pats on the back and encouraging words from his teammates. But he knew that he couldn’t take all the credit, there was someone very important he needed to thank properly for slyly coaxing them to do the Read Option in the first place.

But, as he heard an unmistakable dulcet baritone berating Anderson for his perceived shortfalls, Greg realised that there was a more pressing matter at hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes:
> 
> A Play-Action Pass involves a fake-handoff to a running back. The two (or more) wide receivers pretend to block for the running back before going into their routes
> 
> The Read Option is EXTREMELY popular right now thanks to the recent surge in running quarterbacks (like Colin Kaepernick of the 49ers). In this play, the QB and RB stay back in the pocket, forcing the defensive end to make a decision about whom they're going to try and tackle. So if the DE starts for the RB, the QB can just tuck the football and run with it, and vice versa. 
> 
> Also:  
> *any views expressed regarding the fans of the Oakland Raiders belong to the imaginary characters created by the author and not the author herself*


	12. Week 4 - San Francisco 49ers

Greg leaned back in his chair, a glass of scotch in one hand and a small remote in the other. With a smirk, he took a long sip of the scotch and twisted the knob on the remote to the off position. A few feet away, a completely naked Sherlock lay sprawled on his bed with both arms and both legs tied to bed-posts. He gave a jerk as the vibrator shut off.

“Lestrade. This is absolute torture. I’m going to have you arrested for intentional violation of the Geneva Convention.”

“Oh really?” Greg chuckled, “Well fuck, I’ll call the UN for you, ‘Hello, head of the UN?'”

“His name is Ban-Ki Moon. God you’re so Americ-uuggggh”

Greg turned the vibrator back on, “‘Yes, Mr. Moon. You see, my boyfriend acted like a complete asshole, so I shoved a vibrator up his, well, asshole, and am currently alternating between keeping it at the lowest setting and turning it off. Obviously I should be taken in and questioned due to my wanton disregard for proper procedure.’”

Sherlock writhed against the sheets, “Please Lestrade...please.”

“‘Oh, what’s that Mr. Moon? You think the punishment is perfectly fitting the crime? Well that’s splendid, I’ll let him know.’”

“ _Alright Lestrade, you’ve made your point_. Just please for the love of God fuck me before I die.”

Greg set his drink down and moved to hover over Sherlock’s prone body, “Oh really? Before you die?”

Sherlock stared into his eyes, “Please, Lestrade.”

Greg leaned up and pulled his shirt off, “Well, I’m sorry to disappoint, but I’m not going to fuck you. Not tonight anyway.”

Sherlock grit his teeth and let out an exasperated groan.

“Now calm down there, dollface. I’ve been staring at that gorgeous cock of yours for about thirty minutes now,” He stood up to remove his jeans and pants before straddling Sherlock’s hips, “And honestly, wondering how nice it would feel inside me,” He leaned down to gently brush his lips over Sherlock’s, “Do you think that’d be alright?”

“God yes."

"I thought so."

Greg reached over to grab the bottle of lube from the bedside table and settled back over Sherlock’s thighs. Biting his lip and grinning, he coated his fingers and slid them slowly between his legs until they settled right over his opening. Just the sight of Sherlock for the past half hour had gotten him partially aroused and it only took a bit of coaxing to press his fingers inside, the second one following shortly after the first. He ran his free hand slowly up and down Sherlock's cock, watching his tortured expressions.

Sherlock arched his back and gasped, "Lestrade... I _need_ to touch you," He jerked against his restraints, "Where the hell did you learn to tie knots like this?"

Greg smiled, "I was a Boy Scout."

"Mmm...you know what they say about Boy Scouts..."

"That we're always prepared?" He winked at Sherlock and slid a condom slowly over his cock.

Greg squeezed more lube into his hand and coated Sherlock's cock generously before pulling his fingers out and lifting himself up into position. He grasped Sherlock with one hand while bracing himself with the other and slowly lowered himself. There were frequent, necessary, pauses before the bottoms of Greg's thighs touched the top of Sherlock's hips.

Once he was completely filled, he slowly rocked forward a few times to get used to the feeling. He roughly pushed his hands up Sherlock's torso until they rested just over his rib cage. Biting his lip again, he increased the speed of his rocking motion, occasionally pulling his hips up a few inches before slamming them back down.

Sherlock alternated between groaning loudly while thrusting his hips and fighting viciously against his restraints, a sight that only aroused Greg more. Greg could tell Sherlock was getting close and reached behind him to grab the remote that lay between Sherlock's legs. He rolled his hips as he leaned back and moaned loudly as he remembered exactly how good that felt. Shifting his hips slightly, he brought his other hand back and braced it on Sherlock's thigh then leaned back and started undulating his chest and hips in a slow rhythm.

"God, Sherlock. Do you have any idea how perfect your cock is? It feels so amazing inside me..."

"Lestrade, do you have any idea how gloriously warm and tight you feel? Seeing you like this... please, just please untie me.”

“Where would touch me?” He locked eyes with Sherlock, “Would you slide your hands up my thighs?” He demonstrated with his own hands as he spoke, “Would you trace your fingers up my chest? Run them over my nipples? Would you tightly fist my cock?"

Greg could hear his panting getting more fevered and finally turned the vibrator all the way on, relishing in the delicious heaving gasps coming from beneath him until Sherlock finally shouted and released inside him. As soon as he was spent, Greg sat up to let his cock slip out of him then repositioned himself over Sherlock’s abdomen. After a dozen desperate, sloppy strokes Greg felt his own orgasm rush over him and cried out as he ejaculated stripes across Sherlock’s chest and shoulders.

There was a large drop marking Sherlock’s chin and Greg eagerly bent down to lick it off before claiming Sherlock’s mouth. He ran his tongue all around Sherlock's mouth, letting him taste the little bit of him that lingered on Greg's tongue. Without breaking the kiss, Greg reached up and untied Sherlock's wrists one by one, jumping a bit when Sherlock immediately wrapped his arms around Greg and pressed them together. Greg could feel his own ejaculate smear across his chest,  but honestly didn't mind. Sherlock's fingers spread wide and pulled Greg impossibly closer, no doubt leaving indentations.

Sherlock suddenly pulled away, "Please for the love of God, will you turn that thing off?"

Greg smiled and reached for the remote, "Oh, sorry!" He turned it off quickly, "I hope you've learned some sort of lesson."

"Mmm...yes. Be nice to Anderson or you'll torture me."

"Something like that." Greg pressed a soft kiss to Sherlock's lips.

"Would you mind untying my feet now?"

"I suppose I can," He sat up and moved to the end of the bed, "Thank you, by the way."

"For what?"

"I'm not stupid, Sherlock. I know you brought up the Read Option on purpose."

"Perhaps I wanted to see how far I could push you," He twisted each ankle as they were freed, "Perhaps I wanted to see what you were capable of when you had a reason to try. Perhaps I was more than pleasantly surprised by your performance," He snuggled against Greg once he was back lying beside him, "But you'll never prove it."

 

***

 

The locker room was abuzz, the chatter among the players was almost deafening. This was it: the game where they would really have to prove themselves. Their first division game. And it was against a strong 49ers team that made it to the playoffs three years in a row. And it was in Santa Clara.

Despite the odds against them, Greg found his teammates to be overwhelming positive. The past three weeks managed to instill a strong thread of confidence amongst the players; and Greg was more than pleased to find out that most of the confidence laid in his abilities.

John walk up and slapped him on his bare back, “So, Greg, have you heard what nickname they’ve given you?”

Greg turned and continued to lace his pants, “Who?”

“The media, the fans, ESPN now even.”

“I’m don’t think I have, no.”

“Yeah, apparently they’re calling you the Silver Fox. After your performance last game.”

Greg ruffled his hand through his short hair, “Shit, it’s not that bad is it?”

Sherlock came waltzing out of the shower, “I rather like it, I think.”

He dropped his towel carelessly, giving Greg - and everyone else - an eyeful before pulling on his jockstrap. The sight made him bite his bottom lip unconsciously before turning back to whatever it was John was still talking about.

Forty-five minutes later, Greg found himself running out of the tunnel of Levi’s Stadium for the first time. It was bigger than Candlestick had been, and flashier, too, even if it was a bit weird seeing resort hotels rather than skyscrapers along the skyline. The home crowd was especially enthusiastic, although Greg could definitely made out sections of the stadium where fans were wearing silver and dark blue rather than red and gold - which made sense, seeing as Los Angeles was only a five hour drive away. Still, it was heartening to see they already had a semblance of a formal fanbase.

Fans that he definitely didn't want to let down.

 

***

 

Greg wanted to swear as he stood on the sidelines. This was absolutely ridiculous. They'd had a comfortable two-score lead heading into the fourth quarter, but the Niners had successfully scored on their last three possessions, while the Blazes had only been able to settle for one field goal.

Now thirty-five seconds remained in the game and Hopkins had just been tackled at their own 20-yard line, to thunderous applause from Niners fans. It would take something fantastic for them to pull this off. And he wanted more than anything to pull this off.

He turned to Sherlock, "Any ideas?"

Sherlock grimaced, "80 yards in thirty seconds, not optimal."

Mike spoke up, "Very aware of that Sherlock. I'm thinking a quick run than a Hail-"

"Why not a Hook Route? They’re most likely expecting us to either throw a long pass or do a short run. Instead, I could run a short route, say 7-8 yards, and turn around to catch the pass. All goes well, I could probably run for another twenty yards or so before they catch me, if they do. Then we can run an Up the Middle with John-”

Greg interrupted, “Wait wait wait, Sherlock. That’s still leaves, what 50 yards? That John would have to run. He’s not capable of that.”

“Just trust me, okay? He’s ready. He just needs to believe that he’s ready. And with the game on the line, he won’t have a choice. Convince Coach Sawyer to let us borrow one of the defensive ends - Sam will do - to help with clearing a path for him.”

Mike shook his head, “If you’re wrong about this-”

“I’ll take the blame from Coach Hudson personally. But this _will work_.”

“If you’re sure...”

“Quite. Sure.”

Greg sighed as he pulled his helmet on. There wasn’t time left for mistakes, any misstep or mis-called play would bring their first loss of the season. But he’d worked hard to show Sherlock that he trusted him. And his plan was just lunatic enough to succeed, as long as John cooperated. It all hinged on him being able to run further than he had all season; he had to make a touchdown, a field goal wouldn’t be enough.

Sherlock ran the Hook perfectly, he sprinted immediately once the ball was snapped, causing the strong safety to run into the backfield. When he stopped abruptly to catch the pass from Greg, perfectly spiralled towards him, it took the cornerback a moment to realise that Holmes was no longer running with him. By the time the defense caught up, Sherlock had reached the Niners’ 45-yard line - a 27-yard run that had the Blazes fans up on their feet in the stands and added a little bit of swagger to his walk as he made his way to the huddle.

John gave him a fist bump, “Excellent play, man. So what’s our next one?”

Greg took a deep breath before speaking, “We’re going to do an Up the Middle. To you, John.”

“Are you serious? I’m not sure we have time to run more than one play.”

Sherlock spoke up, “Exactly John. We’re going to need you to run the 45 yards for the touchdown.”

“I really can’t run that far. My leg...”

Greg grabbed his shoulder pad, “Yes you can, John. And we’ve got Sam here to help block. Everyone is going to help block. You’re the shortest, you’re the easiest to create an avenue for at the line.”

John grunted, “Alright fine. Fine. I’ll do it.”

Greg broke the huddle with a clap and moved into position, eyeing the defensive line. John just had to get past eleven huge men, nine of which would hopefully be blocked by other players. It definitely wasn’t impossible, healthy players did it all the time. He glanced behind him where John was standing and convinced himself that he saw something like determination on his face.

He crouched in position, “ON THREE YOU’RE GOING TO TELL ME AGAIN ABOUT YOUR DRESS CODE. ONE...TWO...”

The snap was perfect. The hand-off was perfect. John quickly wrapped his arms around the ball and hunched his shoulders down, aiming for a hole right between Anderson and Donovan. He got safely past the initial line but a middle linebacker was headed right for him. Greg gasped and started running to help block but Sherlock beat him to it, shouldering the linebacker right off their feet, then continued running just in front of John - along with Dimmock - and successfully kept both safeties from tackling him.

Greg’s mouth gaped. It had worked, it had ACTUALLY worked. And he wasn’t sure who was beaming more: John or Sherlock. John spiked the ball triumphantly and stretched his arms out towards the stands. Suddenly every Blazes player was on the field, running towards the endzone to congratulate John; and Greg followed suit, jogging slowly to the mass of silver and dark blue that had gathered around his tight end and making his way to the center to embrace John.

Once the celebration was over, the team made their way to the locker room, waving to the fans enthusiastically along the way and - in John’s case - speaking to reporters. Somehow Greg had managed to elude the multitude of cameras and microphones gathered on the sidelines, an occurrence he more than welcomed. Normally he’d want to do a quick interview to celebrate their win, but he had something more important to plan.

Sherlock was already getting undressed by the time he reached the locker room, smiling smugly in a way he’d probably been perfecting since childhood. Greg knew that this was a double triumph for him: not only had they won, but he’d been able to prove that he was a right, which was probably a greater victory for him.

Greg pressed against his back and whispered in his ear, “You’re showering at your apartment tonight. Go straight there and leave the door unlocked for me. And start showering. I’ll be there shortly.”

He expected some sort of wise remark from the younger man, but Sherlock instead just nodded and continued undressing. Once he was back in sweats, he left the locker room without a word, right before John entered to triumphant applause and hollers from his teammates. Even Coach Hudson entered to congratulate him, shielding her eyes at first to make sure the coast was clear.

More than a few congratulations were directed towards him, but Greg turned down any invitations for drinks he received, slyly saying that he already had plans. Much better plans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I just commandeer the first ~~possibly~~ [openly gay NFL player](http://www.nytimes.com/2014/02/10/sports/michael-sam-college-football-star-says-he-is-gay-ahead-of-nfl-draft.html?_r=0) for my story? 
> 
> Yes. Yes I did.


	13. Week 5 - Philadelphia Eagles

After gathering his things, Greg had driven as quickly as possible to Sherlock’s apartment - thankful that the bastard lived in a part of town that allowed him to go against the post-game traffic. He impatiently tapped his foot while the elevator seemed to take its precious time arriving at the penthouse level, trying his hardest not to give dirty looks to the building’s residents as they stepped off onto their respective floors. His timing for this had to be perfect, he had to get there while Sherlock was still showering.

As luck would have it, Greg could still hear water running as he stepped through the ornate door to Sherlock’s apartment. He undressed on his way to the opulent bathroom, carelessly discarding his mesh shorts and t-shirt wherever they might fall, but leaving on his boxer briefs and tucking a condom into the waistband. With a deep breath, he twisted the knob and opened the bathroom door, letting the steam waft over his face and chest.

A glorious sight awaited him under the spray: a gorgeous pale figure with rivulets of water cascading on and around the sculpted muscles that had obviously taken years to properly develop. And his eyes were currently closed as he rinsed conditioner out of his hair. Greg grinned and bit his lip as he carefully stepped into the shower behind Sherlock and wrapped his arms around his back.

Sherlock leaned back into his touch, “Mmm...about time Lestrade, I was beginning to worry.”

Greg pressed kisses along his warm, wet shoulder, “I’m so sorry to keep you waiting,” He licked a messy line up the back of his neck, “I promise I’ll make it worth the wait, though.”

With one final, quick bite on Sherlock’s shoulder muscle, Greg slid slowly to his knees behind him. He gripped Sherlock’s thighs roughly, rubbing his thumbs right at the crease where the backs of his thighs met the roundness of his arse cheeks. Slowly, he moved his hands upwards until both hands were sprawled across plump flesh. Gingerly, he spread Sherlock’s cheeks apart, running his tongue up and down the cleft before finally settling on the tight, puckered hole at the very bottom.

He could hear Sherlock’s short gasps as he focused his attention on and around his entrance until the flesh started to give way and he could slowly insert the tip of his tongue inside him. At this point his face was hopelessly buried and he alternated between swirling it around Sherlock’s entrance and thrusting it inside him.

A small slap resounded as Sherlock leaned to brace himself on the wall, “Christ, Lestrade, that feels amazing...”

After delivering a few nibbles to Sherlock’s backside, Greg licked a broad swipe all the way up to his tailbone, then slowly rose until he was on his feet again. He quickly filled the space his tongue had left with two fingers, scissoring them and opening Sherlock until he was ready for a third digit. By then Sherlock was desperately pushing back against Greg’s hand, despite Greg’s other arm wrapped around his chest.

Greg slowed his rhythm down, “Are you ready for me?” He asked, gasping into Sherlock’s ear.

Sherlock flung his head back against Greg’s shoulder, “Give me your best, Lestrade.”

The baritone of Sherlock’s voice caused a deep, guttural reaction in Greg. A whimpering growl escaped his mouth before he could stop it as he removed his hand and gave Sherlock’s arse a firm squeeze. His briefs by now were soaking wet, which made pulling them off more difficult than usual; it took several tugs before Greg finally kicked them away and ripped the condom packet open.

Greg leaned his head forward onto Sherlock as he slid the condom on, “You’re pretty spectacular, you know that?”

“So I’ve been told.” He could hear the smile in Sherlock’s tone.

“What you did for John today...incredible....and you deserve to be rewarded.”

Sherlock reached back to tease his finger lightly on Greg’s cock, “Is this my reward?”

Greg bit down hard on his shoulder muscle - eliciting a short, perfect gasp - then ran his tongue roughly over the spot, “Only if you want it to be.”

Sherlock groaned and rubbed his hand slowly up and down Greg’s shaft before bending over slightly, enough to give Greg a better angle. He removed his hand and used to to help brace himself against the wall; Greg took it as an indication not to go easy on him. Greg carefully positioned the head of his cock and gently pushed the tip in, gradually adding more as he felt Sherlock relax around him.

“More, Lestrade! God, there’s no need to treat me like I’m fragile.”

 _Absolutely ridiculous_ , Greg bit his lip and pushed the rest of the way in, choosing to pause for a moment anyway despite any objections Sherlock might have. He lightly traced his fingers down Sherlock’s back, waiting for the moment he would get frustrated and start pushing against him greedily.

When it finally happened, accompanied by Sherlock’s grunt of disapproval, Greg grabbed onto his shoulders for leverage and pulled out almost all the way then thrusted his hips forward again. After that, he started into a punishing rhythm, tilting his hips up as he pushed back in and down as he pulled out. He watched Sherlock’s cock swing helplessly beneath him, Sherlock’s hands otherwise occupied pressing hard against the wet bathroom tile.

It was a mesmerizing sight: watching himself slide so effortlessly in and out of Sherlock, watching him needily push back against him in an effort to have as much of Greg’s cock inside of him as possible. Greg tilted up even more on his next thrust, brushing against what he knew was a bundle of nerves that would send Sherlock into convulsions. He relished the shivers and gasps that erupted from the prone body in front of him.

Greg marked wide bites across Sherlock’s slick back, “Would you...like me to touch you? Can I?”

Sherlock growled out a hasty “Yes.”

His right hand gripped tighter - in order to keep his rhythm  - and he moved his left hand lower, running his finger down Sherlock’s ribs and across his abdominal muscles, until he had a firm grip on Sherlock’s leaking erection. Greg gave him fast, furious strokes matching the pace he had already set and within moments Sherlock was crying out and clenching against Greg’s cock.

Greg could feel himself near-cresting and thrust roughly until his vision finally when blank and he could feel his muscles tighten. Panting, he pulled out of Sherlock and stepped away to dispose to of the condom, allowing Sherlock to turn around and slump against the wall. Greg noticed his left hand was still covered in come, despite the shower still being on, and licked all over it before running it under the stream of water.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, “My, aren’t we greedy.”

“You know I want as much of you as I can get.”

Sherlock, with great effort, pushed himself off the wall and wrapped his arms around Greg, “You’ve got most of me already, haven’t you?”

Greg chuckled and kissed his neck, “Oh look at you, being all romantic.”

“It’s just post-coital bliss,” Sherlock snorted, “It’ll wear off soon.”

"Mmm.... I think I like it, though," Greg stroked his fingers lightly across Sherlock's back, "You being all sweet."

Sherlock groaned, "Don't be treacly, Lestrade," He quickly stepped away and out of the shower, "I'm making tea, would you like a cuppa?"

Greg grabbed the bottle of shampoo, "No thanks. Coffee would be nice though, if the French press is clean."

He hummed quietly to himself as he washed himself up. Right now, as he stood, he was the quarterback of a team that was 4-0 and leading their division. And a lot of it was thanks to the insufferably remarkable man Greg had just had his arms around. Granted, it was still early in the season, anything could still happen, but as the warm water washed over his face and down his chest, he couldn’t remember when he’d felt happier.

  


***

 

Greg was rudely awoken the next morning by a hand roughly shaking his arm. He grunted and tried rolling over to the over side, but the intruder was persistent, finally straddling his chest and pushing on both his shoulders.

“C’mon, Lestrade! You need to see this!”

Greg finally opened his eyes to see wide, turquoise eyes peering down at him, “Urrrgh, Sherlock. What’s so terribly important?”

“You’ll need to come and see! Come on, I’ve already made you coffee and breakfast.”

“How early is it?”

“It’s almost half ten, you lazy sod.”

“Fuck. Alright, I’m up. Gimme a minute and I’ll be right in there.”

Sherlock helpfully clambered off and swished his dressing gown around himself before exiting. It took Greg a moment to get himself fully conscious before he could bring himself to sit up in Sherlock’s ridiculously comfy bed. He yawned and stretched his arms out until he heard a few joints pop. After throwing on a fresh pair of boxer briefs that he’d packed, he tied on one of Sherlock’s dressing gowns, rubbed his hand over his face, and padded his way to the spacious living room.

The giant TV mounted on the wall had Sportscenter on - it seemed like a decidedly strange pick for Sherlock, but the silly grin on his face told Greg otherwise. He motioned for Greg to hurry over and sit beside him on the couch.

“Lestrade, if you don’t hurry you’ll miss it!” He handed Greg a plate of food and motioned towards one of the steaming mugs on the coffee table.

“Oooh, french toast with fresh berries, eh? You must really like me.”

“And if you want me to make it again, you’ll hush.”

“Alright alright, don’t get your tights in a wad.”

“Shh.”

Greg rolled his eyes and shoved a bite of french toast in his mouth as he focused his attention on the television, whatever was coming on, Sherlock was assuredly deadset on him seeing it. The graphics for the Top 10 flashed up on the screen and Greg watched in relative silence as highlights from baseball, golf, and other football teams flashed by. Number 2 on the list was an interception by a cornerback for the Patriots named Jim Moriarty. Greg raised an eyebrow when he saw it, Moriarty must have jumped nearly two feet in the air to make the catch and somehow still landed perfectly and had enough momentum to take it into the endzone.

“Moriarty...didn’t you go to college with him?”

Sherlock glared at him, “Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.”

And finally, Greg saw why. The Number 1 play on the list was John’s 45-yard run for a touchdown. They showed the build-up to the play, “ _And now, our top play features the Silver Blazes who are on their own 20-yard line with just thirty seconds left in the game against their division rival, the Niners. They’ve got to score a touchdown now to win it, a field goal won’t do._ ” Greg and Sherlock’s perfectly executed Hook pass “ _And we see some amazing work by the Silver Fox and Holmes who is, quite understandably, becoming his favorite receiver that puts them in Niners territory._ ”, and replayed over and over John successfully breaking through the line and barreling his way to the endzone “ _Forty-five yards to the endzone, can you believe it? John Watson barely looks like_ he _believes it. Let’s watch that again._ ” Greg pumped his fist without realizing it and looked around for his phone.

“I need to text and congratulate him, this is fucking fantastic!” Greg set his plate down, grabbed Sherlock’s face with both hands, and planted a quick kiss on his lips, “And it’s all your doing, you fantastic meddler. You really are something, you know that?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but a blush was rising along his cheekbones, “I only try to execute the best outcome based the data I obtain on my own observations.”

“Well keep it up because you are fantastic.” He gave Sherlock a peck on the forehead as rose from the couch to find his phone.

“It’s in the kitchen, on the counter next to the kettle.” Sherlock helpfully supplied.

“Thank you, doll.”

“Pet names Lestrade, or should I call you _Silver Fox_?”

 

***

 

This was ridiculous, almost laughable. Greg was continually turning his face away from the camera, either holding up a clipboard to block shared giggles with Mike or hiding his smile as he sipped cups of water. He felt awful when the Eagles quarterback, Mark Sanchez, fumbled the ball again - this time on a 3rd-and-1 - effectively turning the ball over to the Blazes for the fifth time that game. And it was barely the third quarter. Darren Sproles - the intended receiver - threw his hands up in obvious frustration, which made Greg feel worse for finding it so amusing.

“John, are we bad people?” Greg asked as he snickered out the side of his mouth.

John hid his laugh by coughing into his fist, “I’ve always heard Sanchez was a prick. This is just uh...what do you call it Sherlock? Shawdee....?”

“ _Schadenfreude_. John.” Sherlock rolled his eyes and pulled his helmet on, “I’m assuming we’ll just run a billion more pass routes to take advantage of their rookie safeties and limited pass defense?”

Mike nodded at his clipboard, “That’d be our best form of offense. Although it hardly matters at this point.”

Greg followed suit with his own helmet and turned to Sherlock, “You don’t sound too excited about that.”

Sherlock sighed, “I’m _bored_. I was honestly expecting a bit more. Statistically, this team should be doing so much better than they are but they started the wrong quarterback and their defense is sputtering. I just don’t understand, they made decent off-season decisions, they’re just...playing sloppily. Why would they do that?”

John snorted, “Not everything has to be clever, Sherlock. Sometimes teams just have bad games.”

  
By the fourth quarter, Sherlock had flat-out refused to play, insisting that Hopkins could run all the routes instead and deriding the game as “Boring.” Mike had rolled his eyes and indulged his little sulk, incorporating more short routes and even letting John run out for a pass or two. Despite Sherlock’s childish behavior, Greg had to admit he was right: this game was a bit boring. the Eagles were truly having an awful game and it seemed almost mean to have a five-score lead against them.

Mercifully, the game ended shortly after the two-minute warning when it was clear that the Eagles weren’t going to get possession back in time. Greg found Sproles and spoke with him briefly before weaving past the reporters to make his way to the locker rooms. There was no fantastic play this game, no amazing highlight, no breakthrough performance. Sure, in a way, this game showcased to Greg how well the Blazes were starting to mesh together, but it was still, in his mind, a sloppy win against a team having a bad day. And the last thing he wanted to do was brag about that to a reporter.

On his way there, he could see Mike heading for Sherlock, thrusting his clipboard along the way. No doubt to chastise him for his attitude during the latter part of the game. And as much as Greg knew that Sherlock sincerely deserved whatever harsh language Mike might have for him, it would hardly do any good in getting him to actually change his behavior.

Greg caught up to Mike and placed a hand on his shoulder, “Mike, let me talk to him, eh? I think I can get through to him.”

Mike chuckled dryly, obviously flustered, “Are you sure you won’t go easy on him? He needs to know that next time he pulls a diva act like that, I’m putting him on the IR list.”

Greg gave him his toothiest smile, “Oh, I very much promise not to go easy on him. You don’t need to worry about that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Realistically, I know the Eagles will more than likely start Nick Foles at QB, given how well he played last season in Chip Kelly's offense, but I couldn't resist ragging on Mark Sanchez.


	14. Week 6 - BYE WEEK

Impatience showed in Sherlock's shoulders as the two of them rode up the elevator in silence. He twitched nervously, crossing and uncrossing his arms, obviously at a loss of what to do with his hands. Greg noticed and grinned to himself; the plans he had for the evening would put that energy to good use.

The door to the apartment was barely shut before Sherlock had Greg pressed against it, crushing their lips together messily and running his hands up under Greg's shirt. He tilted his head to gain further access to Greg’s mouth and made sweet, keening noises as he maneuvered his tongue against Greg’s own.

Greg nibbled on Sherlock’s bottom lip, “Aren’t we awfully eager?”

Sherlock moved to his neck, licking and sucking along the sensitive skin, “That game was so boring Lestrade, you saw it. Mmm....This was all I could think about. I just wanted the hateful boring game to be over,” His fingers kneaded into Greg’s abdominal muscles, “So I could have you for this.”

“Well in the case...” Greg gasped as Sherlock bit his clavicle particularly hard, “I’m going to need you to get undressed.”

“Right here?”

Greg gently nudged him back and assumed an authoritative stance, “Not here. Undress. Completely. Then stand in front of the window.”

“The window?”

Greg straightened his shoulders further and cocked an eyebrow, “Do you have a problem with that?”

Sherlock froze for a second before shaking his head ever-so-slightly and removing his shirt, casting it aside on the floor. He unzipped his jeans and slid them down, keeping his eyes on Greg as he raised himself back up and stepped out of them. Stiffly, he turned and walked across the living room until he reached the long windows that ran all along one wall of the penthouse.

There was a pause as Greg’s breath caught in his throat; the sight of Sherlock’s sculpted, pale form framed by the city lights of the Los Angeles skyline was - at that point - the most perfect thing he’d ever seen. His arms were hanging loosely at his sides but one hip jutted out slightly, almost sassily, as if he couldn’t help but be obstinate in some way. Greg pulled his belt out of the loops of his jeans as he walked over, looping it around his neck while he stripped down to just his briefs.

He ran one tanned hand smoothly down the contrasting pale skin of Sherlock’s back, causing the younger man to unconsciously shiver. Gently, Greg pushed him flat against the window and set Sherlock’s arms over his head. With a quick yank, Sherlock’s underpants were pulled down, exposing his gorgeous, round arse.

Greg leaned close and whispered in his ear, “What’s your safe-phrase?”

Sherlock moaned, “Roughing the passer. Sir.”

“Perfect.” He cracked the belt once for good measure, then stepped back.

He braced himself and without warning, brought the belt down across Sherlock’s flesh. The skin was already reddening when he pulled his arm out to lash out another hit. Soft, gasping moans came from the man in front of him as he unleashed a third, fourth, then fifth hit.

Greg gave Sherlock’s arse a firm squeeze, “I wonder what people would think, if they were to look up and see you, stretched out so beautifully with your cock smearing itself on the window,” He whispered, “Do you want someone to see you like this?”

A messy, open gasp was Sherlock’s only reply. A visual shudder passed down his back in anticipation of Greg’s next strike. It occurred to Greg that perhaps this willing recipient wasn’t fully aware of what exactly he was being punished for. He rested the belt back around his neck and pressed himself flush against Sherlock’s back, registering and ignoring the wince of pain that escaped the younger man’s lips.

“Do you know why I’m doing this?” Greg asked, softly against Sherlock’s curls.

“Oh, I assumed it was as always. Your gentle nature hides a very lovely predilection towards sadism that you enjoy indulging in from time to time. I never thought to question it.”

Greg sighed, “Sherlock. Do you understand what you do for a living? What paid for this spacious penthouse of yours?”

It was Sherlock’s turn to sigh, “You don’t think me so daft as to not realise that I catch a egg-shaped object for money, do you?”

“No, I don’t think you’re stupid,” Greg rubbed his hands up and down Sherlock’s arms, “I just don’t think you realise how lucky you are. There are millions of people that would kill a nun to take your spot. You don’t get to sulk about during a game and be bored.”

Greg stepped back and gripped the belt firmly again. Without another word, he flayed it against Sherlock’s backside and upper thighs four more times until the reddening skin became an absurd contrast to the ivory tone that covered the rest of his skin. It was an arresting sight and Greg felt himself grow impossibly harder just knowing that he had caused it.

He’s just about the raise the belt again when he hears a whimpered, “Roughing the passer.”

Immediately, Greg dropped it and rushed to wrap his arms around Sherlock, careful not to press his own skin against the parts of Sherlock’s flesh that are still sensitive. He lifts one hand and gently moves it through Sherlock’s hair in an attempt to soothe him. An idea occurs to him and he tilted his head in order to whisper in Sherlock’s ear.

“What about helmet-to-helmet?”

Sherlock chuckled darkly, “I suppose I could handle that sort of offense.”

Slowly, Sherlock turned around until his face was inches from Greg’s and closed the gap almost immediately in a tender, unhurried kiss. Greg reached down between them and found that, despite the fact that he was still quite solid, Sherlock’s own erection was flagging. He leaned further into their kiss, tracing his tongue along Sherlock’s lips and teeth until he was finally granted access to the inside of his mouth, then wrapped his hand around Sherlock’s member and slowly pumped up and down until it was fully erect again.

With his free hand, Greg tugged his own boxer briefs down, finally freeing his aching cock. Then, smoothly, he wrapped his hand around both and resumed his movements, canting his hips in a contrasting rhythm. Sherlock’s hands were all over him: grasping at his shoulder blades, running through his short hair, grazing down his back, and finally gripping his arse firmly and encouraging Greg to rut against him faster. Greg groaned appreciatively as he obliged him, pressing Sherlock against the cold glass of the window to gain leverage as he thrust fiercely.

Sherlock moved back and released quick gasps into Greg’s mouth, increasing in frequency and volume until Greg felt him clench and warm, thick liquid covered his fingers and back of his hand. He let go of Sherlock and moved his hand furiously, desperate for his own release. He was just about there, eyes clenched, when he felt long fingers interlace with his own and simultaneously slow his rhythm down while tightening his grip.

It was perfect, exactly what he needed, as if Sherlock had managed to read his mind - or possibly that he just knew Greg too well. After a few minutes, Greg felt a hot rush rise up in him from his toes and cried out, curling the fingers of his free hand around Sherlock’s bicep. Suddenly, he felt incredibly boneless and crumpled to the floor, taking Sherlock with him.

He groaned and stretched out, “Sorry...I think my legs gave out.”

Sherlock chuckled, “‘S’alright, I don’t mind lying here with you.”

“See,” Greg pulled him into his arms, “You’re bein’ all sweet again.”

He nuzzled against Greg’s chest, “It’s only because now I know how much you like it.”

“I like you. Period.”

There was a pause before Sherlock looked up at him, “I want you to know...I’ll try harder, alright? I can’t guarantee that it’ll never happen again but I promise that I’ll keep your guidance in mind.”

Greg idly traced patterns on Sherlock’s back with his fingers, “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course, Lestrade.”

He paused, to summon his courage, “Well, we’ve got the bye week coming up and I’ve got this beach house in Hermosa Beach and I was wondering if-”

Sherlock surprised him with a firm kiss that he held for a few seconds before releasing, “Yes, Lestrade. I’d rather like to spend the bye week with you.”

“Really?”

“Oh yes, absolutely. Otherwise my brother will try to fill my schedule with ridiculous meetings and events that I have no interest in,” He noticed the subtle fall in Greg’s face, “And I’ve got a lot of interest in seeing you like this as much as possible.”

Greg leaned his head up give Sherlock a kiss of his own, “Fantastic. Let’s leave tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow, are you sure you want to leave so quickly?”

“Of course, why wait?”

Sherlock jumped up, “Well in that case, I’m going to need to properly sleep in a proper bed.”

Greg rolled his eyes as Sherlock pulled him up to his feet, “You won’t sleep anyway.”

“Then I can comfortably watch you sleep.”

 

***

 

The drive was short, barely enough time for Greg to finish the coffee and breakfast burrito Sherlock had made for the trip. It was a gorgeous drive though, even better once they’d finally escaped the city. Greg thanked whichever deity was responsible for the warm weather Southern California always seemed to have as he lowered the roof of the convertible. A quick glance to his right had him stifling giggles when he noticed the wind whipping Sherlock’s curls around his face. Although he didn’t seem to notice, otherwise occupied busily tapping away on his phone.

“This is supposed to be a vacation, what are you so busy doing?” Greg hollered over the wind.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, “The dear brother of mine. He’s not happy that I won’t be in town. I swear he gets a kick out of parading me around.”

“Do I ever get to meet this brother of yours?”

“Not if I can help it.”

The rest of the relatively short drive was driven in silence, mostly out of necessity due to the noise. At some point Sherlock finally put his phone down, leaning his head back to enjoy the warmth of the sunshine on his face. Greg reached across and clasped his hand, not sure if he would accept the intimate gesture or not and pleased when he felt long, thin fingers wrap around his own.

Greg grinned when Hermosa Beach finally came into view - an extremely welcome sight. It had been at least two years since he’d visited the place, not since he and Christian had, well, “mutually agreed to appreciate their differences and separate accordingly” the papers had said. Christian had always been particularly verbose.

And he’d been kind enough not to claim sole ownership of their beach house, which Greg appreciated. The property had been a sort of honeymoon purchase that they’d both gone in on, neither of them making enough money at that point to afford it outright. Greg had loved it immediately, it proved to be the perfect escape once his body inevitably decided that it was unable to handle the frigid weather in Buffalo any longer. Truth be told, its proximity to Los Angeles had definitely played a factor in his decision to switch teams, although it was really just a bonus.

The beach house did have one downside, which Greg realized as soon as he walked in and started to regret his decision to bring Sherlock here in the first place: the whole house reminded him on his failed relationship. He’d forgotten that the two of them had designed the place themselves, from the dark wood that composed every piece of furniture to the marble floors and countertops. He didn’t need to go into the kitchen to know that the stainless steel espresso machine was still sitting there that they’d used every morning before heading out to their private deck. Thankfully, perhaps, all of the pictures of the two of them were gone, most likely Christian’s doing, but it made the place look stark and bare. As if Greg and Sherlock had just walked into a vacation rental, rather than a house that Greg had owned for almost a decade.

He shook his head and exhaled deeply, jumping a bit when Sherlock placed a hand on his arm, “So I assume this was a property you owned with your ex-husband?”

“Technically we both still own it. It’s the only thing that we kept mutual ownership of.”

Sherlock nodded, “He knew how much you liked it and yet couldn’t completely part with it. Awfully generous of him”

“Considering everything else, I suppose.”

Sherlock dropped his bags and cocked his head, “Would you mind showing me the bedroom?”

Greg snickered, “Tired already from the oh-so-long drive here?”

“No...” Sherlock narrowed his eyes thoughtfully, “But the idea of shagging you in the bed the two of you picked out together is definitely a turn-on for me.”

Greg’s eyes widened, "Oh. It’s just up these stairs here.”

 

***

 

All the windows of the bedroom are open - Sherlock had insisted it so - letting in ocean air, crisp with a hint of saltiness. _How very coincidental_ , Greg thought to himself as he mouthed openly against the skin of Sherlock’s shoulders, licking unashamedly and relishing the taste of sweat and want. Over him, Sherlock had just fully seated himself inside of Greg and paused to let them both adjust to the feeling.

It was a different sort of feeling, one Greg hadn’t experienced in a long time. It had been Sherlock’s idea, and Greg was more than glad he’d agreed to it. You don’t really realise how much you miss something until you get it again.

The question had seemed innocent, as Sherlock hovered naked over him, “Did you get tested during your physical?”

Greg had blinked a few times, “Well yeah, of course.”

Sherlock had stared at him with those impossibly blue eyes, “As did I. Were you clean?”

“Umm...yeah. Yeah. Why?”

“Me as well. Have you...been with anyone since then? Beside me.”

“No. No. Not at all. You?”

Sherlock grinned and leaned down until their noses were almost touching, “Not even once. Haven’t even considered it.”

Greg found himself at a loss of breath, “Well that’s...that’s good. Then.”

“Mmm....very good,” Sherlock moved his hips slightly, just barely brushing their cocks together, “Can I...may I...would it be alright if I...didn’t use a condom? I’d love to...really feel you. Feel all of you.”

“Oh God,” Greg licked his lips, “That would be amazing. Wonderful actually. Yes, yes please.”

That was where Greg found himself, able to feel every inch of Sherlock resting inside of him. Greg nosed his neck and wrapped his legs around him as an encouragement, using the strength of his calves to nudge Sherlock forward. Hint obviously taken, Sherlock began rocking against him, almost tenderly, as if he were trying to draw this out as long as possible.  Greg draped his arms carelessly across Sherlock’s back, wanting him impossibly closer and loving the friction of Sherlock’s impossibly smooth chest rubbing against his hairy one.

“God, Sherlock, ugh....your cock feels so fantastic. Fuck. I love the way you fuck me.”

Sherlock’s thrusts increased with Greg’s words, pounding into him with a delicious intensity. The movement rocked Greg further upwards, allowing a better angle for Sherlock to brush against the tight bundle of nerves inside of Greg; it was like an electrical current driving through him. He dragged his short nails up Sherlock’s back and moaned deeply to encourage him.

Greg was close, he could feel it, feel the rush moving through him. The ribbed planes of Sherlock’s abs felt fantastic as his thrusts rubbed them against Greg’s cock, providing just enough stimulation that Greg didn’t feel the need to touch it himself. He jerked his hips upwards, seeking more of Sherlock, wanting to be touched by him more, wanting to be filled by him more, until his vision flashed white and a guttural, inhuman noise escaped his mouth. He was vaguely aware of Sherlock biting down on him and thrusting into him a few more times, but everything was blurry as his orgasm flowed over him.

As the synapses in his brain calmed down and he came back to reality, he recognised a warmth inside of him that he hadn’t realised he’d been aching for. Even after Sherlock pulled out of him - letting out a gasp as he did - there was still the lingering comfort of ejaculate resting inside of him. He knew that he should wash himself, he should get up now and clean himself up, but just being aware that there was a part of Sherlock inside of him, coating him and covering him, was almost enough to get him fully aroused again.

He turned his head to the curly-headed prone body lying next to him, “I’ve missed that.”

Sherlock looked confused, “Missed what? We had sex last night.”

“No, I’ve missed...you know. I’ve missed doing it without a rubber.”

“Oh really?” Sherlock moved quickly, placing his hands on either side of Greg’s chest and stared down at him, “Do you like the feeling of me inside you? The sensation of me filling you? My come covering the inside of you until it starts to seep out?”

Greg groaned, “Fuck, Sherlock. You can’t do that. There’s no way I can go at it again this quickly.”

Sherlock smiled, “Then what do you say we have a nice, hot shower and then I see what you look like in swimwear?”

 

***

 

Early the next morning, Sherlock sat in the kitchen in his dressing gown going over various strategies for their next game - the Cardinals wouldn’t be especially difficult but they were a division rival and anything could be expected, when he heard the distinct sound of a key turning in the front door lock. He froze, one eyebrow raised and head tilted. Greg was still definitely asleep, Sherlock had left the bedroom just over an hour ago and hadn’t heard a rustle since. No one else would have a key...except -

A tall man - well-muscled, he obviously worked out but only to keep himself fit, not trying to overly sculpt himself... most likely a jogger - with sandy blonde hair, an impossibly chiseled jaw, and deep chocolate brown eyes that could only be rivalled by Lestrade’s own engrossing ones, walked into the kitchen and hesitated once he saw Sherlock. He had his phone in his right hand, obviously in the middle of a text, but his eyes were roaming over the strange figure before him. His confusion was apparent and Sherlock debated whether he should help him out or not.

Before he could decide, the stranger smirked, “I suppose you’re his newest, then?”

Sherlock returned his smirk and leaned his chin on his fist, “I suppose that makes you his ex-husband, then? How funny you should choose to come while we’re here.”

“Trust me, this is a complete coincidence. I won’t be long, just grabbing a few things.” He stepped forward and stuck his hand out, “Christian Davenport, in case he hasn’t told you.”

Sherlock didn’t extend his own hand, “The name’s Sherlock Holmes.”

Christian gave him a toothy smile, “Oh I know who you are. You two are the talk of the football world at the moment. You know every analyst I've spoken to is already picking the Blazes to win the division."

Sherlock shrugged, "Only the division? How characteristically short-sighted of them."

"That's already putting a lot of faith in a first-year team, dontcha think?. Especially since your division has the Seahawks and the Niners in it. But hey, you guys have been nailing it so far, maybe you'll continue," He rested his hands on his hips, "I should have known there was a reason you two had such good...chemistry on the field.”

“That’s right, you’re an agent, aren’t you? That’s how you met Greg I assume. Bit of a conflict of interest, don’t you think?”

“If you know I’m a sports agent,” He walked over to the cupboards and began opening them, “You’d know that I never represented...Greg...for precisely that reason.”

Sherlock let his curiosity get the best of him, “So what happened, exactly, if I may ask?”

Christian shrugged his shoulders and opened his mouth to speak -

“No, no. Wait. Let me figure it out,” He stood up and paced around the kitchen, “You’re rather successful in your own right so it wasn’t over finances....hmm...it couldn’t have been infidelity, the separation was too amiable. Besides, Greg doesn’t seem the type to stray and you,” Sherlock squinted and stared into his eyes, “no, you’re fairly trustworthy as well. As far as monogamous concerns go,” He sighed, “How droll. So can I assume that the two of you decided to settle and build some sort of ersatz companionship until you both realized after...eight years, no _eleven_ years that it just wasn’t working and one day you....just packed up and left?”

“No, I left.”

Both men turned quickly to see Greg descending the stairs in just a t-shirt and boxer briefs with an exhausted look on his face.

Greg sighed and ruffled his hands through his hair, “Morning Sherlock. Morning Christian. Can I ask why you’re here?” He licked his bottom lip, “Christian obviously, I know why Sherlock’s here.”

The surety in Christian’s demeanor faltered a bit, “I’m uh...just grabbing a few things. I honestly didn’t know you’d be here.”

“What do you need to grab? You’ve already made sure that any photos of either or both of us are gone. It doesn’t even look like I own the place.”

“Just...a few appliances. And a couple shirts I left the last time I was here.”

“Yeah well, don’t take the blender or the coffeemaker.” He pointed to each as he spoke, “C’mon Sherlock, let’s get dressed and I’ll take you to breakfast.”

Sherlock jumped up and followed him, obviously enjoying his commanding demeanor. They were almost to the top of the stairs when Greg heard Christian call his name. He jerked his head upwards, wordlessly telling Sherlock to continue to the bedroom, then walked back down the stairs.

Greg stood in the kitchen, arms crossed, “Yeah?”

Christian sighed, “We don’t have to be.... ambivalent to one another, alright? I know not to expect reconciliation and, well, it’s clear you’ve moved on....but it would be nice to go out for a drink once, maybe? We live in the same city for Christ’s sake.”

Greg cocked his head, “I’ll think about it, maybe.”

He hurried back up the stairs, wanting more than anything to be away from the house at that moment. Sherlock was apparently already dressed and in the bathroom brushing his teeth as Greg tugged a clean pair of jeans on. He was rummaging through his suitcase for a t-shirt when he felt warm arms wrap around his torso.

“I shouldn’t have tried to deduce it, I was just - “

“Save it for now, alright? Let’s just get out of here.”

When they got outside, Sherlock moved to get in the car but Greg shook his head and pointed towards the sidewalk. There was a diner right on the beach that he had always loved visiting. It was small, unpretentious, and, most importantly, a short walk from the beach house.

His fingers brushed against Sherlock's as they strolled and it wasn't long before Greg clasped their hands together. The weather was absolutely perfect, sunny, clear, a little bit on the side of "too hot" but still bearable. The ocean would be nice and warm later should they decide to go swimming again. The idea that a negative tone had already been set for the day aggravated Greg, he tried to alleviate his concern by rubbing slow circles with his thumb on Sherlock's palm. It was mostly an attempt at reassurance, though he wasn't sure if it was for Sherlock or himself.

The diner was relatively empty when they arrived, to Greg's surprise and they were quickly seated at an old leather booth.  Once they'd ordered and started drinking their coffees, it occurred to Greg that it might be good to offer Sherlock some explanation.

He decided to lead gently, "I'm sorry about this morning. If I'd known he was going to pop in -"

Sherlock held up a hand, "It's nothing to concern yourself over. I should apologise for my antagonisation."

"No, not at all. You weren't doing besides being yourself. And I kinda like you, so don't forget that."

"Really?"

"Yes really!  But Christian and I...well you were right, to an extent. After awhile our relationship kind of...stagnated. Seemed like no matter how hard we tried, we just kept growing apart. And eventually I...I packed my stuff up one day last year - right before last year's draft actually - and I left. Because I didn't want to spend another eleven years working on something when it was obvious our hearts weren't in it. And we're alright, you know. Obviously we aren't exactly aching to see each other, I think it'll be some time before we can be in each other's company without feeling awkward or upset."

"Hah... I don't think any of my exes would deign to be in the same room with me for any feasible amount of time. I've never been one to...end things well."

"Oh don't get the wrong idea, there are quite a few guys and ladies out there that wouldn't hesitate to bruise this face of mine if given the chance. I haven't always been....well..."

"Well you're quite nice the way you are now. I lack sufficient data so I don't know for sure, but I'm fairly certain that this version of you is my favorite."

Greg reached across the table to interlace their fingers, "Does any of that worry you?"

"Any of what?"

"I just don't want you to think I'm going to wake up one day and... I don't know, be different or change the way I feel or something. Sorry, I'm not trying to be..."

"No, you're not being presumptuous. I can't say that I have an overwhelming amount of information regarding relationships but I know enough to be aware that they're not all alike. You shouldn't worry so much, Lestrade."

Sherlock sipped his coffee with a smirk and Greg felt warm all through his chest. He felt inexorably better, perhaps he'd been wrong in assuming that Sherlock was the one that needed reassurance. In the back of his head, he knew that he wasn't ready to consider himself committed just yet. He wasn't ready for labels, wasn't ready to talk about "forever" or "the rest of our lives",  wasn't ready to accept that he only desired one specific person. Or that he was deserving of this one specific person. But one thing he could admit is that he didn't want to let this one go.

 

***

 

"This is a very bad idea."

They were in the ocean up to the middle of their chests. Occasionally waves would roll by and bring the water up to their shoulders, but it never got to be overwhelming. Greg's fists were clenched. One of Sherlock's fists was wrapped around Greg's cock.

"Oh Lestrade, I think this is a fantastic idea."

"Someone is going to.....ugggghhhhh....see. Someone will definitely - _fuck me that's nice_ \- notice!"

"That's right, thrust up with me. But keep talking, make it look natural. We have nothing to hide." He twisted his wrist a bit on the next upstroke.

Greg groaned, "Nothing to hide?"

"Nothing that the few people on the shore can see. They haven't even noticed that I'm taking you apart," He increased his pace, "Would you like me to get their attention? Alert them to your situation?" He leaned closer to whisper, "Shall I tell them, 'Hurry, don't you want to hear the desperate noises he's making? You won't believe how gorgeous he's going to look when I finally make him come.'" He purred out the last three words.

Greg fought a losing battle to keep his composure, "You are....that is.... I'm so fucking close Sherlock."

The pace suddenly slowed, the grip became impossibly, almost painfully, tight. Strokes were drawn out as long as possible. Greg felt his thigh muscles tighten, then his abdominals. Suddenly, the rush flew through him, forcing him to brace himself on Sherlock's shoulders for balance as his knees buckled. He let his head fall against Sherlock's neck and grit his teeth to avoid crying out too loudly.

Greg released a huge sigh, "Sherlock that was phenomenal. You are absolutely ridiculous though."

He chuckled and pulled Sherlock in for a messy kiss, suddenly not caring so much about the few people wandering around on the shore. Sherlock’s skin was slick with salty water and Greg’s hands slid easily around his waist and up his back. His tongue teased around Sherlock’s lips, enjoying the small bit of salt that remained from when they’d been swimming earlier.

After a moment, Sherlock pulled away, “Perhaps we should go back to the house? I think I’d rather like to take this to a level that’s a bit inappropriate for bystanders.”

Greg chuckled again, “More inappropriate than what we just did?”

“Much. Much more inappropriate.”

“In that case, I’ll race you to the shore.” Greg playfully splashed him before taking off.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (there might be a special update coming this week....a super special one)


	15. Week 6 - BYE WEEK (special bonus scene)

There are between 640 and over 800 muscles in the human body, depending on whom you ask and how that person, whomever they may be, determines what classifies a “muscle.” One thing that _is_ universally agreed is that there are three different types: striated, smooth, and cardiac. One thing I think should be universally agreed about is that all of Lestrade’s are perfect.

The busiest muscles in the body are the six extraocular muscles - the _superior rectus_ , the _inferior rectus_ , the _lateral rectus_ , the _medial rectus_ , the _superior oblique_ , and the _inferior oblique_. All working together - or rather working against each other, balancing each other out - to help us see the world around us. To help us observe. Lestrade’s eyes are as dark as processed staurolite and shine just as brightly. I know this even though right now his eyes are closed. Of the few fundamental things I am sure about, this is the one I trust the most: when Lestrade awakes, he will look at me with his cocoa eyes -  his eyes that are somehow the same shade that my coffee is when I have it just the way I like it, his eyes that I would stare at all day if I thought he’d allow me to - and everything in the world will somehow feel right.

The smallest muscle in the body is called the _stapedius_. It’s located in the inner ear, connected to the _stapes_ , which happens to be the smallest human bone, lovely the way the body fits together, yes? Despite its size, its function is quite important. When Lestrade is playing at peak performance, and thousands of people are shouting his name at the top of their lungs, the _stapedius_ pulls on the _stapes_ to reduce the excess vibrations caused by loud noises. This means that he will be perfectly capable of hearing me when I whisper in his ear later on.

The largest muscle in the body is the _gluteus maximus_. Lestrade’s is delicious.

Other than his _gluteus maximus_ , I particularly like his _rectus_ _abdominis_. Right now it is smoothly defined, not as much as mine but I’m okay with that. And one day, it will be even smoother, perhaps he will even allow himself to become slightly soft around the middle. I think I might like that. It will most likely happen once the silver that is currently flecked randomly - is it random? I should take the time to investigate -  around his dark hair covers his head completely. His hair will still look good then. Perhaps I'd even like his hair better if it were more silver than dark brown. I know that I’d like to be around to find out. I wonder how many people know how soft his hair is. You’d think it’d be coarse because of its short length, but the opposite is very much true. I would forego sleep for the rest of my life if he’d let me run my hands through his hair constantly.

Sometimes, adorably, Lestrade’s nose will twitch while he sleeps. I wonder if he knows that the _procerus_ muscle is what allows that to happen. I doubt it. I think he is more familiar with how to break noses than what their functional design comprises. I don’t mean to insinuate that Lestrade is or was some sort of bully, rather the opposite actually. He is, unabashedly, the sort that would run to a bullied kid’s rescue in primary or secondary school. I can assume this because it is very apparent that he still sees himself this way, he is still trying to rescue anyone who might need him. He seems to especially like trying to save people from themselves.

Lestrade is starting to rouse himself now, which is good because I prefer him awake. His eyes open blearily and he’s smiling once he realises that I’m watching him. Normally, I can easily name all forty-three muscles in the human face, and specifically which ones pull and stretch for each different type of smile. But when Lestrade smiles...all I can think about is how soft his lips are, how good he tastes, and how much I want to taste him.

There are between 640 and over 800 muscles in the human body. All of Lestrade’s are perfect.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realized that I haven't written anything from Sherlock's perspective yet and decided to remedy it. I actually really enjoyed it! I'm going to have to dabble in more Sherlock POV stuff in the future


	16. Week 7 - Arizona Cardinals

Greg rolled his shoulders and sighed. The production assistants were still giving directions to various crewmembers while the soft-spoken makeup artist fussed with Neil Everett’s hair. Any moment now, the music would start, the lights would go up, and their quick fluff piece would start. On his right was John, clearly uncomfortable and fidgeting in his seat.

He leaned his head over, “Are you nervous, John? Haven’t you done these things before?”

“Oh yea, lots of times. I just...” He flexed his hand a few times, “I hate having to talk about myself so these things always make me a little anxious.”

“Just do what I do: we’ve got a little time left before it begins, take a deep breath, then try and think about the last time you felt completely happy and relaxed.”

“That really works for you?”

Greg grinned, “Absolutely, I swear by it.”

John cocked his head, “So what are you thinking about?”

_Their last day at the cabin. They’d been walking down the beach right around sunset. Initially they’d been loosely holding hands, but Sherlock had quickly abandoned it to examine washed-up shells. At some point, Greg had been apologizing again for Christian’s intrusion and Sherlock had looked up at him and rolled his eyes._

_“Honestly Lestrade, I’m sure someday there’ll be some embarrassing incident involving one of my exes.”_

_Greg had snickered and Sherlock had given him a quizzical look._

_“I’m sorry, alright? It’s just a little difficult to imagine you in a relationship.”_

_“Well I’m doing alright in this one, aren’t I?”_

_And then Sherlock had stared at him with those impossibly turquoise eyes, still somehow bright despite the fading light, and Greg had lost his breath. To be honest, he hadn’t been quite sure what to call what they had, for some reason he was reluctant to believe that Sherlock could feel that way about him. At that moment, he felt stupid, short-sighted, ridiculous, for not being able to recognise it sooner._

_He’d grasped Sherlock’s hand and tugged him up until their faces almost met, “You’re doing quite well, actually.”_

“Oh just, thinking about the beach.”

“Right.”

"So um... How was your bye week?"

John gave him a huge smile, "Really great actually, I went back to Denver to visit some friends and watch the Broncos play the Patriots. And I uh... I met someone"

"Oh really?"

"Yeah, her name's Mary."

Greg playfully nudged him, "So tell me about her! What's she like, eh?"

"Well, she's really smart, and funny. She hung out with us after the game with a few of the other players, although she happens to play for the Patriots."

"Oh God John, really? A _Patriot_? Was it her perpetual cocky swagger that drew you in?"

"Stop! I think I really like her.”

“What position does she play, then? I don’t remember any women on their offense.”

“Nah, she’s defense. Outside linebacker.”

“Ooohhh. You’ve got yourself a strong one. I can’t wait for her to manhandle you.”

“Well good, because I am going to tell you all about it. It _is_ only fair after you dragged me through all your Sherlock nonsense.”

Suddenly, there was a flurry of movement as the first bars of Sportscenter’s theme started and the stagelights tilted up to focus on the three men sitting at the desk. Greg focused his eyes on the camera for a split second and gave a sly wink before turning towards Neil; he knew Sherlock would be watching and like that.

_(Camera slowly zooms in to show SILVER BLAZE players GREG LESTRADE, in a dark grey suit with a slightly unbuttoned royal blue shirt, and JOHN WATSON, wearing a dark blue suit with a black buttoned-up shirt and tie)_

NEIL EVERETT: The last time Los Angeles had a football team was 1994, when the city was, probably, quite happy to send the Rams away. And, while there have been talks to get a team back to Los Angeles for quite a few years now, it wasn’t until this season that it finally happened. After a few unexpected off-season changes and decisions, the sports world wasn’t quite sure what to expect when the football season started, but here we are at week 6 and the LA Silver Blazes are sitting quite happy at the top of their division with a 5-0 record. Which is why we’ve set some time out today to talk to Greg Lestrade and John Watson, two key players in the Blazes’ success. How are you guys today?

JOHN WATSON: Really good, thanks Neil.

GREG LESTRADE: Amazing, well-rested after a nice Bye Week.

EVERETT: Great to hear it guys. Let’s start with you, John. There were a lot of questions about your readiness coming into this season. Do you think you’ve proven your critics wrong?

WATSON: ( _chuckles_ ) Well it’s still very early in the season, but I hope I’ve proved something by now. My goal was to come back at my strongest and so far I think I’ve done well. I owe a lot of thanks to Greg here and of course, Sherlock, for really working with me and kind of...pushing me to get to my best.

LESTRADE: ( _laughs_ ) Especially Sherlock. There were quite a few times that you two practiced almost twelve hours, weren’t there?

WATSON: Yeah, he can be quite a drill sergeant sometimes. I have to admit that it’s effective, though. I think it’s that posh accent of his, it’s quite easy to instantly feel reprimanded when he talks to you.

EVERETT: What is it like having a British person on your team? Doesn’t seem like American football and British culture go well together.

LESTRADE: For us it’s been quite nice because he - and I can only refer to Sherlock in this, who knows if another British person would act differently - he is singularly focused on performing as well as possible and taking this team as far as possible. I swear he spends every day going over film and rifling through the playbook. I think Mike Stamford sometimes gets bothered by his insistent hands-on approach, but it’s worked well for us so far.

EVERETT: What do you think has changed on this team from prior seasons? Because Holmes is well-known as a bit of a misanthrope and from what you tell me, he seems to have turned into quite the team player.

WATSON: I hadn’t played with him, and only against him a couple of times, prior to this season so I only have rumors and hearsay to go by, but I think he’s just happy to have people around him that will accept his input.

LESTRADE: Not to pass judgement on any former teammates of his, of course. But he definitely has an outlet and a receptive audience and I think he’s thriving on that.

EVERETT: Well it’s certainly helped you, Greg, that was quite an impressive touchdown run you had the other week. Your first since college if I remember correctly.

LESTRADE: Thank you! Yeah, that was our successful experiment with the Read option. I’ve never been much a scrabbler, that’s just not the way I’ve ever played, y’know? But that’s a good example of Sherlock pushing us out of our comfort zones. Although I would kick myself if I didn’t also mention the phenomenal skills Sally Donovan exhibited not just in that particular play, but all season. She’s easily the best rookie, and probably the best center, that I’ve ever played with.

WATSON: (nods) We’ve really just got a great team. Everyone seems to interact well together, everyone’s stepping up because we know we’ve absolutely got something to prove this season. I’ve rarely seen a defense play as tough as ours has. It’s been really great so far watching this all come together.

EVERETT: Well best of luck not just to you both, but to the entire Silver Blazes team. Thanks for stopping by and good luck with the Cardinals this week.

LESTRADE: Always a pleasure, Neil.

WATSON: Thanks again.

 

***

 

Greg had smiled at the text he’d received from Sally shortly after leaving the ESPN studios, _Thanks for the shout-out, I was worried your interview was going to turn into a Sherlock Circlejerk._ He honestly hadn’t intended to talk about Sherlock so much, but his hard work was responsible for a lot of the team’s success so far, something he was glad John agreed with.

Sherlock had been similarly blunt in the text he had sent Greg, _It was excellent seeing you and John keep the focus on who really mattered._ Although Greg could only assume that most of that was sarcasm. While Sherlock could be downright arrogant during a game, he was always hesitant to take credit afterwards. In fact, Greg couldn't remember the last time he'd seen Sherlock even do a post-game interview.

 A cup of coffee was waiting for him on the table in the foyer when he stepped inside the front door. When he picked it up and discovered that it was still warm, a smile unconsciously crept across his face; Sherlock had definitely been watching. And he had somehow deduced how long it would take Greg to get out of the studios and back home. It was nice when he used that ridiculous brain of his to do something nice.

He found Sherlock reclined on his couch, eyes shut and fingers steepled in front of his face. Greg playfully ruffled his hair as he walked by and sat down in one of the plush chairs. For a moment, it looked like Sherlock truly was asleep, but then his eyes popped open.

“Oh good, you’re back.”

Greg grinned, “You say that as if you didn’t know exactly when I’d walk through the front door.”

Sherlock waved a hand dismissively, “I gave myself a five minute margin of error, just in case,” He paused and turned his head, “How is your coffee?”

He took a sip and nodded, “Perfect, actually. Just the way I like it.”

He turned back to face the ceiling, “I watched your interview, it was quite good.”

“Really?”

Sherlock shrugged a shoulder, “Well you missed most of the important parts due to your and John’s insistence to fawn over me, but overall it was nice.”

“And with an attitude like that, why wouldn’t we want to fawn over you?”

He huffed and sat up, “I’m just saying, it wouldn’t have killed either of you to go over the fundamentals rather than...romanticising things.”

“Why don’t you do an interview, then?”

Sherlock froze, hands in front of him, then slowly raised an eyebrow, “Why would I want to do that?”

“I don’t know,” Greg sighed, “Show us all how it’s done?” When Sherlock huffed again, he continued, “No really, why don’t you do the post-game interview for once?”

“Ugh. They’re so...dull. All they want to do is fluff up whoever won. Or make the loser feel even worse. Insipid.”

Greg chewed on his lip, “What if there was something in it for you?”

“I’m sorry?”

“What if I...” He set his coffee down and began rubbing his hands up and down his own thighs, “Rewarded you somehow? You’ve challenged me out of my comfort zone and I feel like I should return the favor. Who knows, you might like it.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, “What type of reward?”

Greg winked, “Why don’t we keep that a surprise? Now, I’m going to change out of this delightful suit and into some sweats. Care to go jogging with me?”

He seemed to ponder over it for a moment before nodding his head and standing up abruptly, “Fine. Alright.”

“That’s the spirit! Would you like to help me get undressed?”

“Too much work. I’ll just watch.”

 

***

 

There had been doubt, there had been trepidation, there had been reservations. Worry in all forms had seeped into their locker room despite seemingly little reason for it to be there. But, even when you’re doing well, there’s always the chance to trip and fall off your perch. And it would be even worse to have a division rival - currently last place in the division - make that happen.

Still, the Blazes had played well, focusing on their passing game against a defense that just wasn’t letting Watson or Dimmock get any sort of relative gain. As such, Holmes and Hopkins were were bearing the brunt of the yardage labour, although Lestrade had been successful executing a few slant passes to Watson.

But the Cardinals’ offense wasn’t slacking either, and while the Blazes’ defense was doing a similarly excellent job controlling any rushing plays, Larry Fitzgerald was running all over them. Figuratively and sometimes literally. Greg cursed and nearly threw his helmet when Fitzgerald scored his third touchdown of the game. Fitty may have been a good traveling buddy of his, but he sincerely wished he would injure a hamstring at that moment.

Sherlock looked sternly forward and grit his teeth, “Give me the ball.”

Mike shook his head, “We’ve got time. There’s no need to be dramatic.”

“I know that.” He tilted his head and watched the punt, “Run a few rushing plays, then I’ll take it home.”

“We’ve been unsuccessful on the rush all game, why would we do it now?”

“Because they won’t expect it. They think we’re desperate.”

Greg frowned, “Aren’t we?”

Sherlock laughed, “No. And we won’t need to be if we do as I say.”

“Sherlock. Maybe different phrasing?”

He rolled his eyes, “Sorry. If we follow my advice.”

Mike looked at John, “Could you help block to try and get Dimmock through?”

John nodded, “Yeah yeah, of course.”

“Alright then. Let’s try it. Get ready boys, the two minute warning is almost up.”

Even with John’s assistance, Dimmock was barely able to advance to the fifty-yard line. Sherlock, however, didn’t look concerned in the slightest, despite the dwindling clock. Granted, they were about to start a new set of down, but they didn’t have time to cycle through them again. If Sherlock was going to do something, he needed to do it on this play.

Greg nodded towards him in the huddle, “So, you’re expecting me to throw a Hail Mary?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “I’ll be in the endzone. Don’t worry about that. Just get the ball there.”

Greg shook his head. Of course it would never be that easy. There were eleven men whose job it was to make sure that Greg wasn’t able to throw the football that far. And once Sally hiked the ball to him, at least four headed directly for him. His line was doing the best they could, but he could see it faltering. Sherlock still had a good fifteen yards to go and the strong safety was right on his tail.

Finally, he saw a middle linebacker break through and run straight for him. He checked Sherlock’s position, panicked a bit because Sherlock STILL wasn’t as far as he needed to be, then chucked it anyway before he got tackled. From the turf, he turned his head to see that he’d horribly overthrown it, it was sailing too high for Sherlock to catch it. Greg pounded his fist into the ground and his stomach turned when he realised that they were about to lose for the first time this season. And in front of a home crowd to boot.

Then, just as he’d given up hope, he watched as Sherlock leapt into the air like a fucking gazelle, stretched his arm out as far as he could, and snatched the ball out of the air by his fingertips. The stadium erupted as he sped past the safety the last few yards until he was triumphantly in the endzone. He was soon trampled by teammates as the clock wound down the final seconds.

There were, of course, a large smattering of reporters waiting at the sidelines, and Greg wasn’t about to let Sherlock escape without speaking to at least one of them. But before he could even get to him, Sherlock was sauntering - strutting even, - over to Pam Oliver, who looked a bit surprised to see him.

“Sherlock Holmes! It’s not often we get an audience with you! What was going through your mind during that last play?” She asked.

A voice that was not Sherlock’s replied, “Well, I’m headed down the field, yeah? As fast as my bacon ‘n eggs will take me. When I turn and take a butcher’s back and see that this ball, yeah? It’s a bit too high above me loaf to get a good slab on, yeah? So I’m like ‘Cor, Blimey, I’m gonna need to scarpa up or this bloke right ‘ere? He’s going to try and half-inch it.’ So I take a sail for it, hope my lucky charm will be enough, and would you Adam and Eve it? Bob’s your uncle, I’m in the clean and shaking my Khyber the whole way.”

John was biting his fist as he and Greg strolled past Sherlock’s ridiculous posturing in front of a very confused Oliver. It was all Greg could do to control his own emotions and keep his focus straight ahead. He knew that if he looked at Sherlock, he’d completely lose it. And he wasn’t sure whether he should reward or punish him for it.

Although rewarding him would be much more fun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For some reason, I love the idea of Sherlock taking the piss to make sure Greg never asked him to do an interview ever again.
> 
> Also, can I just say how psychic I feel? Because a few chapters ago, I totally commandeered Michael Sam for the Blazes defense, the Blazes are a fictional team meant to replace the St Louis Rams, and Michael Sam turned out to be drafted by the Rams. You're welcome Michael Sam.
> 
> Feel free to [follow me on Tumblr](http://relax-itsjustbolognese.tumblr.com) for more fun insights. Also if you enjoy pictures of pugs and Rupert Graves.


	17. Week 8 - New Orleans Saints

Greg heard the click of his front door opening and then another when it shut. He could hear someone taking light, confused steps around the foyer and sitting area while calling out his name with that addictive baritone voice of theirs. Any moment now, Sherlock would use his instinct and find him.

But until then, he stood resolute and stock-still in front of his bed. Naked except for a pair of boxer briefs and the cloth blindfold that was tied tightly across his eyes. As he heard Sherlock pace closer, he assumed what he hoped was an enticing pose: arms slightly out but hanging loosely, chest puffed out just a bit, shoulders back, left hip tilted slightly out. And when he heard a soft gasp come from the bedroom doorway followed by a whimper that sounded strangely like his name, he knew he’d done something right.

Long fingers danced over the dark cloth, “This is for me?”

Greg nodded mutely.

“How did you know...? Lestrade sometimes you are perfect.”

Without warning, two large hands pressed against his chest, caressing the muscles first then roughly thumbing against his nipples. Warm breath ghosted over his neck, causing goosebumps to unconsciously raise up on his skin. The hands roughly ran their way down his sides, squeezing his ribs on their way down, one hand travelling further until an open palm was pressed against the obvious bulge in his underpants. Then the warm, abrasive texture of Sherlock’s tongue wet a trail along his jaw until a deep voice was whispering sensually in his ear.

“Are you aware, Lestrade, that they say once one of your senses is compromised, the others become heightened? I think we should test that hypothesis.”

Without warning, Greg’s lips were attacked by Sherlock’s, a heady mixture of pressure and persistence. Greg parted his lips minutely and gasped as Sherlock’s tongue took advantage of the opening and slid along his teeth. Long, nimble fingers traced their way up his back and neck until they were threaded through his short hair. He winced a bit as Sherlock used his grip as leverage, pressing the kiss deeper at first before pulling Greg’s head back. Greg mouthed desperately at the air, perplexed at the sudden abandonment.

“How was that?” Sherlock’s panted out.

The warmth of his breath clued Greg in that his lips were dangerously close to Greg’s own, they were practically breathing the same air. Just a short lean and their mouths would be pressed together again. But now wasn’t the time for that. Right now, he was going to let Sherlock have the lead. Instead, Greg gave him a look that he hoped conveyed confusion.

Sherlock huffed, “The taste, the texture, the temperature, did any of it feel different?” When Greg didn’t immediately respond, Sherlock gripped his upper arms, “No matter, we’ll just keep experimenting.”

And the delicious, plush mouth was on him again, this time accompanied by nails dragging sharply up and down his back. This time, Greg tried to pay attention to the bumpy texture of Sherlock’s tongue as it rubbed against his own. He tried to focus on the splitting, addictive pain from the marks Sherlock was making on his back, scratches that made him gasp.  The first thing he was able to realise, though, was that Sherlock’s smell was fantastic - he’d never noticed how sexy it was when the crisp, clean scent of his body started to fade away as his natural musk took over.

The intermittent rutting of a hardening cock against his belly was making it more difficult to pay attention, he gasped openly as heat pooled in his stomach. A low chuckle rumbled from Sherlock and tickled his lips. Playfully, Greg nipped at Sherlock's lower lip and tugged until the other man was groaning and digging his nails into Greg's shoulders.

When Greg finally released him, Sherlock leaned to whisper in his ear, "Perhaps further study is needed."

Without warning, he was maneuvered until he felt the back of his thighs hitting the bed and helpfully pushed backward. After flopping quite unsexily onto the bed, Greg only has a moment to adjust to his new horizontal position before he can feel the bed shift from Sherlock clamboring over to him. From the dips in the mattress around him and hints of warm air on his face, he can tell that Sherlock is hovering just slightly over him and tries to wait patiently for Sherlock’s next move.

The bed shifts again and warm lips are covering his right nipple. Sherlock alternates between licking and biting until Greg is moaning unreservedly beneath him. He gives him one more tugging bite, then places a hand on Greg’s chest to steady him, and slowly kisses his way down his chest and abdomen until he reaches the elastic of his briefs. For a moment, Sherlock stayed there, nuzzling against the cloth separating him from Greg’s obviously hardening cock.

Greg lifted his hips up, both as a response and an encouragement. Fingers brushing over his hips and looping into his briefs let him know that Sherlock is obliging him, and he’s slowly freed of his restrictive briefs. He hates that he gasps so loudly once his prick is finally out and resting against his stomach. The gasps increase when light touches begin to travel up and down his shaft, not enough to derive him any satisfaction, but just enough to have him writhing on the bed for more.

His hips nearly launch themselves off the bed when a rough tongue presses against the base of his cock and leisurely licks its way to the plump head. His fingers clench the duvet when that same tongue uses just the tip the trace the vein that runs along the underside of his cock. He can only hope the needy noise he makes isn’t too apparent when warm, too-fucking-perfect-for-their-own-good, lips envelop his cock and slide almost all the way down before sucking back up. Hands are spread and pressed against the top of his thighs to prevent him from bucking, but his groin still thrusts minutely of its own accord once Sherlock’s delicious mouth begins a slow pull-and-drag on his cock that makes him want to scream.

A couple more minutes of this and he knows he’ll lose it. Sherlock, apparently, is aware as well because he unexpectedly pulls off of Greg’s cock with an incredibly sexy pop before climbing back up the bed to hover over Greg once again. Their kiss this time was much more languid, almost more tongue than lips as Sherlock messily explored his mouth.

Sherlock leans back a few centimeters, “How is the taste? Different?”

Greg thinks about it for a second, “Stronger, I think. Maybe bitterer,” He lowers the octave of his voice, “But I think we should test again just to be sure.”

He assumes Sherlock smiles, because he always does when he’s getting his own way, but lips are soon pressed against his own once again nonetheless. Then there’s a rustle of fabric as, he assumes, Sherlock removes his own briefs because the next thing he feels is Sherlock’s cock rubbing against his own. He bites his lip and guides his hands down the sides of Sherlock’s chest until he has a good grip on his hips and spreads his fingers out until they’re clenching the squishy flesh of his arse, encouraging him to rut against him.

Sherlock presses his own hips further down, increasing the friction on their cocks, then moves to whisper again in Greg’s ear, “Tell me everything you’re feeling, every sensation you’re experiencing.”

Greg grunts and exhales loudly, trying to think, “I....I can feel the difference between the skin on your chest and the skin on your....”

Words fail him as Sherlock's pace increases, the combination of sweat from their bodies and precum making the glide easier. Greg huffs and grips the headboard to give himself some leverage, but it’s only takes a few more thrusts before he’s crying out and panting against Sherlock’s neck. His legs are shaking as he feels the warmth on his belly from Sherlock’s own orgasm right before the lanky bastard collapses on top of him.

Sherlock took a moment to catch his breath, then pulled the blindfold slightly off so he could see one of Greg’s eyes, “Lestrade....how did....”

Greg smiled, “Let’s just say....I like to take chances.”

 

***

 

There was something about New Orleans that Greg had always liked; the people, the food, the music, the atmosphere, it was a definite space set apart from the rest of the country. He’d vacationed there a few times as a college student with friends that had been keen on the debauchery that the city offered. He’d kissed a man for the first time on their very first trip there. And then kissed a lot of women. And a lot more men. One of the many dark alleys that Mardi Gras offered had been the first time a stranger had gone down on him in public. Which was also the first place that he kissed Christian.

That was to say, there were quite a few happy memories connected to New Orleans for Greg. Tonight, he thought to himself as he reflected on their game so far, would not be one of them.

They were in the home stretch of the fourth quarter, in what was known as “garbage time” when it was clear to all viewers who the winner would be. And the winners would definitely not be the Blazes.

Greg wasn’t completely sure where things went sour, although the faults were apparent: Hopkins had twisted his knee early on in the second quarter and the Saints had taken advantage by keeping both safeties on Sherlock all night, the Saints’ outside and inside linebackers had made sure that the Blazes’ running game was restricted to four yards or less each carry, and Greg had been pressured and on the run all night. Not too mention that Drew Brees was, as usual, playing exceptionally. The whole game had been an exercise in frustration, he could read it on every face standing next to him on the sideline. And as much as he adored Molly, you never want to admit that your kicker was the only thing keeping you from getting shutout.

Which is why Greg rushed to the locker room as soon as time mercifully rang out, his only thoughts being that he was glad their first loss wasn’t in front of a home crowd and that he really needed a shower to clear his head. He was under the spray possibly longer than necessary, but he kept replaying the events from the game and wondering what could possible have been done to change the outcome. The water went cold before he finally sighed deeply and made his way back to the locker room.

The revelry he was seeing from his teammates was a bit surprising, he had to admit. He had expected everyone to be a bit glum, considering this was their first loss and all, but all of the guys were smiling and chatting with each other. Sally had apparently even snuck in after showering and changing and was currently leaned against Greg’s locker talking to John.

“What’s all this then?” Greg asked as he slid his briefs up, careful to slide them under the towel to preserve his...modesty.

John cocked his head, “All what?”

“You know,” Greg waved his hand around the locker room.

“Oh, you mean why isn’t everyone wallowing around depressed?”

Sally chuckled, “The pressure’s off, Greg!”

Greg furrowed his brow, “I’m sorry, what?”

“What she means,” A deep voice by his shoulder was the only warning he received before Sherlock was standing next to him, “Is that the pressure to have a perfect season is no longer a burden we have to bear.”

Sally nodded, “And we’re still top of our division and we have an enviable record. So...” She gave him a toothy grin, “We were thinking about going out to celebrate, would you like to come?”

At a loss regarding the whole strange situation, Greg turned to look at Sherlock - who seemed to have somehow caught the cheer everyone else was experiencing - for some hint at an answer. Sherlock just shrugged and smiled as he tugged his jeans on. So, no help there.

John nudged him, “C’mon Greg, I can’t be the only old man tagging along to the dance club.”

Greg’s eyes bugged, “A _DANCE_ club?”

“Don’t be bashful, I’m sure you’re a fantastic dancer.” Sally offered.

A husky whisper in his ear agreed, “I think that’s something I’d like to see.”

 

***

 

Somehow, Greg had allowed himself to be talked into this abnormal “celebration” of theirs, but stayed resolutely leaning against the bar with John at his side. The youth on the team might have unintentionally made him feel old before, watching how natural they all looked reminded him that he wasn’t nearly as spry as he used to be. From where he was standing, he could barely make out Dimmock and Wiggins dancing both with each other and a female he didn’t recognise, Molly chatting with Gregson on the other end of the bar, and the strange sight of Sherlock and Sally dancing together.

John took a sip of his beer and cocked his head towards Greg, “That seems a bit odd, doesn’t it?”

Greg followed his line of sight and saw that he was referring to the bouncing curls that comprised Sherlock and Sally, “Yeah, I never would have expected it either. To be honest.”

“What changed?”

Greg shrugged, “You know Sherlock, he’s focused at getting this team to its best. I think he might find that he enjoys spending time with someone who shares that devotion. And hard work ethic.”

“...Besides you?”

“Well yeah. And when it comes down to it, the only person on the team that cares more about you than Sally is Sherlock.”

“What do you mean?”

John put his hands up, “I’m not implying anything, now. I’m just saying that...well...the President and Vice-President of the Greg Lestrade Fan Club are busy gyrating against each other.”

Greg playfully punched him, “Hey! They’re not dancing....that close.”

“Hah! Whatever you say. I wouldn’t blame you, y’know, if you tried to maybe get in the middle.”

He shook his head and sipped his overpriced beer, “You are ridiculous, Watson.”

“There is a reason they call me Three-Continents Watson.”

“I assumed. But I didn’t realise it was because you covered all three at once.”

John affected nonchalance, “You’ve got to have goals.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aww c'mon....they HAD to lose at least one! 
> 
> Also, it appears I got some Sallock in my Sherstrade. I'm not sorry.
> 
> And and and and I'm really sorry it's been so long without an update, my freelance job is kicking up and expecting more of me each week so I'm not able to devote as much time to writing. I'm going to try a bit harder and update this thing about every week and a half, though. 
> 
> I don't want to FORCE you into [following me on Tumblr](http://relax-itsjustbolognese.tumblr.com), but what have you got to lose?


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